


Regeneration

by echo_grace



Series: 3Rs verse [4]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron 2.0, Tron: Uprising
Genre: Multi, multiple duplicate characters, multiple slash and het pairings, the Pop Culture Game continues!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-08-26 03:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 63,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16674010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echo_grace/pseuds/echo_grace
Summary: If freeing the Grid of the MCP was difficult, keeping it from conquering the Users' world may prove impossible.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still working my way through the middle, so here's the tentative plan: Weekly postings of Part 1, then (hopefully) a week-or-two break before beginning Part 2. It's been rough going of late, but I'm hoping Parts 2 and 3 will be finished and getting polished by the time Part 1 wraps up.

**PART 1: Reconcile**

**Prologue**

            “I . . . know this game,” he breathes to himself, fingers brushing the edge of the board. He stares at the black and white stones; impulsively drops to one knee to put them at eye level. “. . . You played each other to stalemate.”

            “You know how to play?” a new voice pipes up, and he nearly upends the board in startled panic. “They tried teaching Beck and me, but we’ve never really had the patience for it. I think Ram’s gotten pretty good, though.”

            It takes him a few seconds to catch his breath again. “You – you’re . . . Jet?” he asks from the floor.

            “And you’re Clu,” the white-circuited Program greets with a small, amused smile.

            Clu gets back up on his feet and edges a couple more steps away as he eyes the Program. “You’re not scared of me.”

            “Should I be?”

            . . . Point. Though Clu might be the elder, the hybrid has far more skill and experience on his side – not to mention home-field advantage – and one _could_ argue that Clu’s really only a few dozen cycles old, anyway.

            Clu looks him over again. “You’re not even angry with me –”

            “Jury’s still out on that one.”

            Clu blinks. “Why? You’ve seen first-hand the horrible things I’ve done, maybe even had to participate to keep your cover –”

            “I’ve also seen you in the quiet moments, when things were winding down and Jarvis left you alone for hours at a time. Do you remember what you did then?”

            Clu’s breath catches. Such moments had been rare. Maybe once a deca-cycle, if he was really, _really_ lucky. Thinking on it, Clu can only remember exhaustion, sadness, and a deep yearning for something – no, some _one_ – he could no longer reach. His brow furrows, and he shakes his head.

            Jet smiles again. “You’d sing to yourself. The same lines over and over again, until either you fell into sleep mode, or a new task came in for the SysAdmin to handle.” Jet approaches him and offers a hand. Clu accepts the touch, his hand quickly sandwiched between Jet’s palms. A compiled memory packet passes between them as Jet continues speaking. “There were even times when your eyes would close and your circuitry would bleach to almost-white again, and you’d look like Alan when he prays.”

            _He sees himself: shoulders slumped, face weary, and circuitry flickering in the palest of yellows as he again sings the song etched into whatever passes as a Program’s soul_ –

            “You remember? ‘Here I am . . . Will you send me an angel –’”

            “Here I am,” Clu takes over, voice resonating. “In the land of the Morning Star . . . .” Emotion swells his throat shut, cutting him down to a whisper. _Someone **did** hear_, he thinks, vision blurring as his eyes open again. He blinks, trying to clear it, and moisture slips from one eye and streaks down his cheek. He stiffens, a new panic rising as the echoes of a now-alien voice rails at him for daring to express such imperfec- –

            Jet’s grip tightens – an anchor point – his expression hardening like he sees the struggle. “Jarrex and I, we’ve seen a side of you no one else knew existed. So we’re giving you the benefit of the doubt . . . . For now.” He releases Clu’s hand and steps back.

            “Thank you,” is all Clu can say.

            Jet’s mouth quirks acknowledgement. “So. You know how to play?” he says, nodding again at the game board.

            “Not at all,” Clu says, taking the opposite chair as Jet scrapes the stones off the board and divides white from black again. “I know it has goals similar to chess, but that’s basically it.”

            “Shall we see if I’m a good teacher?” Jet suggests, self-deprecating amusement radiating from him.

*  *  *  *  *

            “Ram?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Are we fighting?”

            “. . . I don’t know.” Gravel crunches as Tron approaches and sits next to him, close enough to reach, but carefully not touching. “I can understand the logic behind your actions . . . but I can’t parse how you wrestled your emotions into compliance. Did you really –” Ram cuts himself off, shaking his head. Stoic as Tron tends to be, he’s always been a lousy liar. If he says he never wanted Clu dead, then he never wanted Clu dead. “When’d you figure out the MCP was using Clu as its puppet?” he asks instead. “Why didn’t you act on it sooner?” _Before I hit you_ goes unsaid, but he feels himself wince nonetheless.

            “Right before he gave me my Disks back,” Tron says, pulling up a knee to prop his arm up. “I think the possibility’s come to mind off and on over the years. But I had no frame of reference until I met Encom’s Clu, so it kept getting shoved aside for other things.” He pauses, rubbing his fingers together in thought.

            “What’s he like – Encom’s Clu?”

            “Hyper as Beck; mercurial as Jet,” Tron says, failing to hide a smile. “He apparently makes a habit of driving my Originator up a wall – but then, Senior’s turned into kind of a jerk, so it’s hard to –”

            The Portal bursts alight, roaring with a power they’ve never seen before – even the land they’re sitting on trembles under its force.

            “Wonder what that’s about,” Tron mutters.

            “Shall we go find out?”

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One mystery leads to another . . . and poor Steev doesn't have a clue about what's going on.
> 
>    
> (Is that a pun? It feels like a pun.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, one week passes fast . . . and I think I had a little too much fun with the tags, but I'm not too inclined to change 'em just yet.
> 
> Tron's solution is probably not a smart or healthy one, but it felt right. I would not advise following in his footsteps, if you encounter a similar situation.

**Chapter 1**

            He feels a little sick, leaving the room he first woke up in almost forty cycles ago, but Jet pokes and teases at his curiosity enough to get him down into the vehicle hangar. Tron greets them with a friendly-but-distracted grin; Ram’s smile flips into a frown, then his face blanks before he turns away.

            _The silent treatment, then_ , Clu thinks, his gaze dropping as a knot twists tighter in his chest. He slows to a stop, letting Jet go on ahead of him to converse with the other Programs. _Better than shouting accusations and threatening to derezz me, I guess._ It still hurts, though, having his fellow City-builder reject him. Ram had been the eldest of Flynn’s original assisting trio, and the least infected by the MCP when Yori and Abra- um, Jet’s Twin “captured” him.

            Jarvis had been so sure of victory by then that he allowed Clu the indulgence of Rectifying his old friend over destroying him. Clu feels his mouth twitch, his circuitry brightening in a flash of pain-filled gratitude before steadying out again.

            _We’re both still here. Maybe we’ll have a chance to rebuild._

            A small golden creature edges into his vision while the others talk. He flinches away from the color and rejects its ping without processing any of it.

            It pauses, seems to eye him for a moment, then heads for Ram and Tron instead; Tron kneels to speak with it while Jet and Ram argue. Tron glances his way with something ambiguous in his gaze, then answers the creature’s question and pets it briefly before rising and letting it go on its way . . . upstairs.

            “What is that?” Clu murmurs as Tron approaches him, watching the creature maneuver around the controls to call the elevator down again.

            “That’s Bug – a gridbug of mine that Sam modified when he was here –”

            “A Security Program that creates gridbugs,” Clu’s mouth runs away with him. He shakes his head and side-eyes Tron. “You know how weird that is?”

            Tron shrugs and shifts his weight like _he’s_ the nervous one. “The Grid’s a weird place – and I’m not just a Security Program anymore, apparently.”

            Clu’s mouth opens to argue . . . only to shut again. Unlike Tron, the Grid’s the only place he knows, even with the occasional memory-flash from his Encom-counterpart’s base codes. He has no way to judge anything.

            “Will you be joining us?” Tron asks, changing the subject.

            “Am I allowed?”

            Tron shrugs again. “Far as I’m concerned, yes. The only thing keeping you confined here is you.”

            Jet and Ram’s argument stalls, catching Tron’s response. Then all three Programs are staring at him, waiting for his answer. He feels himself hunch in, uncomfortable with the attention. “Yeah, okay,” he breathes, and tries not to flinch at Ram’s scowl.

            Jet and Tron seem pleased, at least.

*  *  *  *  *

            Something within Tron breathes easier, seeing Jet taking Clu under his wing. While Ram’s hurt, anger, and suspicion are completely justified – and is a microcosm of how the rest of the Grid feels about Clu – keeping Clu under house arrest might be an even worse solution over derezzing him before he could wake. But if Jet’s able to look past Clu’s previous actions to the traumatized Program beneath, maybe the rest of the System’s Programs will eventually follow suit without requiring a civil war to settle things first. The Grid itself is still delicate enough that they’d probably destroy themselves in the process, if it came to that.

            They roar their way out of the command center without fanfare, launching into the sky soon after. They land at the Portal without trouble almost two hours later, gathering on their side of the bridge just before the Portal’s light shuts down to reveal a new Program has been uploaded. A ridiculously large Disk shape swings onto the Program’s back before the Program takes its first steps into their world.

            “Greetings, Program!” Tron shouts. The Program’s stride hitches slightly on the bridge – startled, perhaps. “Welcome to the Grid. What’s your name?”

            The Program doesn’t answer – maybe unwilling or uncomfortable with shouting – which is understandable. Seeing Sam’s face as the Program approaches is a pleasant surprise; the disgusted look on it, however, is confusing and pretty jarring.

            The Program eyes him warily before glancing over Jet and Ram, then he shoulders Tron aside and approaches Clu instead. “Steev-zero-seven-eighteen reporting for duty, Sir,” he says, saluting as Clu’s eyes bug out. “I am to assist you in eradicating the MCP from the Grid, and possibly help in the updating process should that decision be made.” He falls into parade rest, awaiting instruction.

            Clu splutters, his eyes darting between Tron and the others like he needs to be rescued.

            Tron shrugs back, equally at a loss; Jet steps a little closer to Clu as Ram shies away, prepared for a fight.

            “You’re late to the party, on the MCP front,” Clu finally says, shoulders rounding and arms curling in like he’s hugging himself. “Do you realize you’ve just snubbed the guy who saved us for a guy who barely know himse- –”

            “TRON-JA, GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE **ASAP** ,” a new voce booms out, the Portal relighting with a near-sonic bang as everyone flinches away.

            “That’s . . . not Sam,” Jet says after a long moment. Shuffling sounds indicate he’s straightening out of a battle stance; a soft grinding sound followed by a breathy grunt suggests someone’s rolling back up from the ground.

            “Or Alan,” Ram agrees, deactivating his Disk.

            _Or Quorra_ , Tron almost says, shoulders relaxing a touch as his Disks resync and he turns ba- – but his gaze snags on the twisted little ‘gotchya’ smirk on Sa- Steev’s face. “Y’know what that’s about?” he asks instead, jerking his head towards the Portal.

            The smirk wipes clear, but the belligerence doesn’t fade from Steev’s eyes.

            “Go.” Three sets of eyes swivel to Clu, who flinches under their combined gaze. Steev moves to block Clu from Tron’s sight, only for Clu to shift again so their eyes meet. He shrugs. “’S not like you’ll be able to focus on anything here anyway, ‘til whatever they need you out there for is handled. So go.”

            Tron looks to the others. Jet catches his eye and nods immediately, confident. Ram’s more hesitant and uneasy, but doesn’t argue. “Alright,” he breathes after a moment, worry and anxiety pulling at him. Then he turns and heads for the Portal.

            A little over midway across, he hears Clu shout something that sounds like “Kegger at Tron’s place!” It’s so Flynn-like he can’t help snorting a laugh at it (he half-considers chanting ‘Toga! To-ga!’ as he turns around to wave a last farewell, but decides to keep his silence).  The Portal’s light swallows him a moment later, it’s power already tugging him upward before he reaches the center and raises his Disk for transport –

            – He steps back to rebalance as the laser releases him; squeezes his eyes shut trying to  dispel the spots faster.

            “ _Shi-i-it_ ,” someone breathes – a female, he thinks. He squints an eye towards the voice, unable to see much beyond a short stature and silvery-blond hair –

            “. . . Lora?”

            “Don’t you know better than to stare down a laser?” a rougher version of Yori’s voice says.

            “Didn’t consider it at the time,” he says as the woman approaches and pokes at him. “What’re you doing here, instead of D.C.? Is Alan –”

            The slap makes bells ring in his head, joints in his neck popping under the force.

            “Like you have any right to care, after what you’ve done –!”

            “Lora, it’s not him!” Quorra half-shouts from somewhere near the doorway. “This is a different Tron – he didn’t do anything –”

            “That could be debated,” Tron chimes in, rubbing at the fire in his cheek. He freezes when Quorra flinches back from his greeting smile. “What’s happened? Why would you be scared of m- –” A chill races through him as the pieces slide together. His hand drops, voice darkening as he demands, “What did he do.”

            “If by ‘he’ you mean Senior,” Lora starts, and barely thirty seconds later Tron’s fumbling for the desk chair as horror and budding rage makes his knees weak with shock. His hand presses against the desk for an anchor point as Lora wraps up, and a tingle of concern flashes up his arm. [ _Tron? Tron, what’s wrong._ ] His breath catches, an image of Ram, Jet, and Clu rising in his mind’s eye.

            _Senior went insane after we left Encom_ , he tells them. _He raped Quorra, nearly killed Alan, and then released something into Encom’s System that they’re still fighting._ He breathes deep, trying to calm his racing heart. _Must be why Steev exists . . . ._ _I’m lucky he didn’t try to kill me on sight, with that history_.

            _You’re gonna be away awhile, then_ , Clu responds, looking from an indistinct shadow that might be the Grid’s newest Program back to him.

            He could almost laugh at the simplicity of the statement, if he didn’t feel like throwing up. _Yeah_ , he says. _A few days, probably. . . . Okay?_

            Ram eyes Clu again, but makes the decision himself: _We’ll be fine here. Check in like this every other day or so, though, okay? Keep us updated_.

            _Will do_ , Tron says, nodding as he pulls away from the computer and takes a deep breath to dispel the headache. His eyes snag on Quorra again as he straightens. Without thinking it through, he stands and approaches her, only slowing when she edges toward the exit. He stops a few strides short and offers his empty hands. “Quorra,” he begins, hesitates. “You said yourself I’m not him,” he bows his head slightly to catch her gaze. “But if you need a punching bag to start the healing process,” he says, taking one more step forward as he tucks his hands behind his back, “I’ll take the first round.”

            She stares at him for a hushed moment. Then a sob catches in her throat. She crashes into him, mewling and shaking as distress rolls out of her.

            He holds her, heart breaking and murmuring _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ over and over again as she clings to him. After several long moments, he feels her tap a clumsy _Acknowledged_ against his lower back as she calms. A relieved breath escapes him, and he kisses the top of her head before releasing her. Instinct drives him to reach out and wipe the tear streaks from one cheek as he nudges her chin up. “Better?”

            She nods; attempts a watery smile as she cradles his hand in hers and takes a deep breath, strength returning to her eyes. He fights back the urge to pull her into another hug –

            “Well. I guess you’ll do, then,” Lora speaks up, startling both of them.

            ( _Wow_ ) Now that he can see her clearly, Tron can understand why Flynn was so blown away at their resemblance almost thirty years ago. “Have you had that hairstyle for a while?” he finds himself asking, apropos of nothing. “Yori’s been making noises about changing hers, but none of us guys know what suggestions to make. It looks good –”

            “Yori?” Quorra asks through a sniffle. “I thought – Sam said she –”

            “She’s a friendly again,” Tron reassures her as their hands disconnect. “Long story – parts of which she probably doesn’t want divulged – but she’s . . . similar to the Program you last knew.”

            Quorra’s mouth twitches with a smile. She takes and sighs out a deep breath, wiping her face clear. “Y’think she might be open to moving back to Encom’s System for a bit? Roy’s getting kinda frustrated that he’s the only one not to see Dad’s Digital Frontier –”

            “Not the only one,” Lora mutters even as Tron shakes his head.

            “I doubt she’d be willing to separate from Jarrex so soon – they’re a little tied at the hip, since we took back the Grid –”

            “Who’s Jarrex?” Lora asks.

            “Her mate – and I don’t think Jarrex would be comfortable with leaving the Grid as it is, either. He’s only slightly better than me about stepping away from responsibilities on occasion –”

            “Like what you’re doing now?”

            Tron blinks, turns to Lora as hope rises in his chest. “I have several responsibilities on multiple planes. What else do you need me for?”

*  *  *  *  *

            After some debate, they agree to go to Encom first. Quorra’s naturally pale skin goes even paler as they walk in, and he clasps his hand around hers, sending a status request ping.

            She sends back a _status quo_ note, but she clings to him, her fine trembling becoming more and more pronounced as their elevator rises. Her breathing gets heavier and louder, her eyes constantly darting up to the camera in the corner.

            _Senior can watch from the cameras_ , he remembers, and shifts his weight, resisting the urge to block Quorra’s visual, since it would also partially block her exit, too. “Quorra,” he murmurs, squeezing her hand to get her attention. “If we’re going to your office again, I can take point –”

            “We’re going to Flynn’s,” Lora interrupts. “You’re the caboose.”

            Tron looks to Quorra, who bites her lip and nods. “Lead the way,” he acquiesces just before the doors open. Lora steps out into a nearly-abandoned floorspace with desks grouped together in threes and fours. He hears several people breathe Quorra’s name like a prayer – or a curse, in a couple cases – as they pass. His shoulders prickle with tension, feeling the eyes watching them as they turn down a hallway –

            “Quorra!” a new voice almost shouts, a slept-in suit with dark hair and pale skin barreling down on them.

            “Eddie, this isn’t a good time –” Lora starts.

            The suit doesn’t acknowledge her, grabbing Quorra and babbling varieties of “I’m sorry,” “Are you okay?”, and “This shouldn’t’ve happened”, pressing into her even as she leans away, clearly uncomfortable.

            “Sir, whatever your issue is, it’ll have to wait,” Tron muscles in, trying to pull the man away from her.

            The man shoots him an affronted glance, opens his mouth –

            “Dillinger, get off my sister,” Sam’s voice orders out of nowhere, the rage pouring off him almost palpable when they turn to look.

            Dillinger flinches and mutters darkly, but releases Quorra and melts away with a scowl.

            Sam opens the office door wider, ushering the women in. He mutters a sharp “Hi” as Tron draws abreast of him, and they both watch Dillinger sulk around a corner and leave their sight. Sam steps back in, Tron following and shutting the door behind him. Then Tron takes two large strides away and waits, rejecting his instinct to guard their weak point to give Quorra a clear escape, if she feels a need for it.

            He knows what it’s like to feel trapped and alone; he’ll do all he can to keep her from feeling that way again.

            After a long minute of whispers and hugging the shakes out of Quorra, Sam turns to him and asks, “How’s the Grid?”

            “Recovery’s going pretty well,” Tron says, letting the lingering chill in Sam’s voice slide. “Bug and his brothers are keeping everything stable while we repair the most heavily infected portions . . . . It’s the Programs living there having the greatest trouble, right now.”

            “Why’s that?”

            Tron feels his mouth twitch at the slightly warmer tone. “Almost everyone was Rectified or drugged into a murderous rage when I went back in, so there’s a lot of trauma. I also managed to retrieve Clu himself, and not everyone’s okay with him surviving as well.” _Beck has yet to speak to me_ , he doesn’t say.

            “Your Clu’s still alive?” Quorra asks, peeking out from Sam’s shoulder. “How is he?”

            “Quiet,” Tron says. “Antsy. Almost sh-  . . . huh.” He tilts his head.

            “What.”

            “If I’ve got the timelines synced correctly,” Tron says; hesitates and looks to Sam. “Flynn may have Created our Clu around the first anniversary of your mother’s death . . . he might naturally be more reserved and focused than Flynn’s usual exuberant, happy-go-lucky style.” He shrugs it off after a moment. “Never really thought about it before – it probably isn’t that big a deal.”

            “It is if it changes how you relate to him,” Flynn says from the couch, making everyone jump. Sam mutters a demand that his father keep resting even as Flynn sits up and scowls at Tron. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t touch my daughter.”

            “That’s Quorra’s decision, not yours,” Tron corrects him gently. “Until she tells me where her line is, I’m using my own experiences as a guide and trusting her to tell me if I go too far.” He glances a question her way and receives a nod from both –

            Flynn rises and stalks up to him, almost bumping their chests before coming to a stop. “You screwed with one of my kids,” he accuses. “Then your . . . _original_ ,” he waves towards his desk, “hurt another of mine.” ( _Another?_ Tron thinks, blinks. _Then – oh!_ ) “So _forgive me_ if I’m a little _disinclined_ to trust your ‘judgement’.”

            Tron holds Flynn’s gaze and bows his head in acknowledgement, but otherwise lets the impasse sit. “How _is_ Clu?” he asks instead.

            “He’s been using whatever you gave him to keep Encom afloat,” Sam says, parting from Quorra and pulling a scowling Flynn away. “I sent in some help a few days ago, but it hasn’t changed much. Honestly, we’re all pooped and running on empty –”

            “Steev’s a real charmer, by the way,” Tron says mildly, brow furrowing as his mind switches tracks. “Maybe Ram and the others’ll be able to teach him something, without me around to confuse things . . . .” He shakes his head, his arms folding protectively around himself. “I haven’t had time to do an in-depth analysis of what was exchanged when Clu gave me his base-codes, but I’m pretty sure it was all MCP-related. How could that possibly help against –”

            The others’ eyes flick to Sam, whose gaze drops to the floor. He shifts his weight guiltily. “I, uh –”

            “Eddie Dillinger’s been inputting bits of the old MCP code into the system on a theory that the MCP wasn’t dead and gone, almost three decades later,” Lora pipes up, bumping her shoulder against Sam’s in prideful solidarity. “Sam’s been catching hints of it from another angle for years – that’s why he had a program already half-built when we needed it.”

            “Huh,” Tron nods. “Then I might be able to help, after all.” He turns to the desk – only to pause mid-step. “If I may?” he asks Flynn, gesturing toward it.

            Flynn’s arms cross and he chews his lip, but he gives the go-ahead.

            Tron settles in the chair and reaches for the desk – only to pause a second time. “Quorra, is there a way to do some kind of . . . inverted camera? So you can monitor my actions while I’m in-System?”

            “Haven’t figured out the time dilation, yet,” Quorra says, curling up against Sam on the couch. “Hell, we’ve barely begun to introduce the concept that Programs are people, too.”

            “Sounds like an excellent bumper sticker,” he jokes flatly. Her answering chuckle is faint, but real. He takes a deep breath, tells himself to stop stalling, and presses his hand to the glass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Clear as mud, yet?


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a happy - if intense - reunion in Encom System. More harm than good may come out of it . . . .

**Chapter 2**

            It’s less of a plunge and more of a gentle coasting downward, this time. He runs into pockets of resistance a couple times, getting flung upwards before the fall is reinstated. He sends out a request ping for Clu to meet him at the energy well, focusing on landing there instead of Quorra’s in-System apartment (no need – or right – to use her personal space. Not this time, if ever again.). He settles into a sitting position on the bridge, hands clasping its edge and his feet tucked under him; takes a deep breath as he solidifies and opens his eyes.

            The first thing he sees is his own blue-green reflection, slightly warping under the energy flow below him. _I’ll have to face Senior eventually_ , he thinks, feeling numb and detached as rage roils within. _But maybe not yet_. He exhales and closes his eyes again, reaching out to the System for an update.

. . .

            . . . . The utter lack of response – not even a faint sense of denial – is unnerving to the point of terrifying. Panic rising, he scrambles his way from the bridge to the ledge overlooking the City, half-dreading what he’ll see. His breath catches – from relief or horror, he can’t even say – at the sight.

            The area surrounding the City has become as dark and threatening as the Outlands before Bug’s brothers started cleaning things up. Buildings throughout the City stand half-rezzed and flickering, like the System can’t be bothered to decide if they’re worth keeping. Only a half-dozen or so stand strong against the darkness, but even a couple of _them_ blink and steady out again as Tron stares.

            Only one I/O tower still shines blue, the rest either turned red again or partially destroyed. The City itself has shrunk by at least a third, just from his angle.

            _You’ve been through Hell_ , Tron thinks, releasing the air trapped in his lungs. _Hell, you’re still going through it_. A small light shoots out of the City as he stares, slowly dividing into two pinpricks as they close in on his area.

            He retreats to his bridge again and goes through some deep-breathing exercises, processing some more of what he’s been told while he waits. By the time the distant rumble of approaching lightcycles reaches his ears, he’s fallen into a sort of doze . . . _he can almost hear the Sam-like Program argue the Flynn-like Program into letting him scout ahead and find an observation point before Clu engages the invader; smirks, but chooses to let the kid settle into position thinking he’s successfully crept up on Tron; lets Clu step closer and consider how to initiate_ –

            “Hey, man. What’re y’doing?”

            His eyes blink open, and he takes in Clu’s sheer exhaustion before noticing the flecks of light floating in the air between them . . . air that’s suddenly a lot lighter and brighter than it had been. Clu’s weight shifts, a soft tinkling-and-crunching sound pulling his gaze downward to the grass-like shards under Clu’s feet.

            “Uh,” he says intelligently. “Seems my fixing instinct is a little on overdrive . . . Sorry? I had intended to ask if you wanted any help fir- –”

            “If this is how you fix things,” Clu says, flopping down and making more light-flecks scatter. “Feel free to keep going – this is the best thing I’ve seen in _months_.” His eyes close.

            Tron’s mouth twitches, surprised at the easy show of trust. “Steev isn’t doing well?”

            Clu snorts. “Can’t teach a warrior to fight if you don’t know how to.” He waves toward the City. “We’ve kept what we have by sheer luck and tenacity so far . . . which isn’t gonna last much longer . . . .” He sighs, already drifting into sleep mode.

            Much as he doesn’t want to, Tron leans over and nudges his shoulder; Clu grunts awake. “You asked me last time how I could stand to be near you,” he murmurs. “You sure you can trust me to guard your sleep?”

            “Obv’sly,” Clu slurs, nuzzling against the grass he’s almost blending into and not bothering to keep his heavy eyes open.

            Tron bites back a chuckle and pulls away, relieved to have one less fight to deal with as he settles back into his own doze for a time . . . .

            . . . . What seems like hours – but is probably minutes – later, he feels Steev shift out of his hiding place and approach him. He pretends to not hear the soft crunching of grass-shards, or feel the intense stare the boy’s levelling at him until the Program goes still several feet away –

            “I know your Maker and his father,” he tells the hum developing around them. “I’ve raised two of your half-siblings over the last twenty years.” He opens an eye and lifts his head enough to catch Steev’s gaze; doesn’t flinch at the giant active Disk the boy’s about to throw. “At the risk of sounding arrogant, I doubt there’s anything you could do that’ll surprise me for long.” He closes his eye and faces forward again, breathing deep. “I am not your enemy, Steev Flynn,” he declares. “But I can give you a fight, if that’s what you want.” He waits, allowing the space to compare and debate for a minute or two, then adds, “Or I could teach you ways to fight your _real_ enemy and win, if you’d like.”

            “ . . . What, like ‘wax on, wax off’?”

            Tron laughs, pleasantly surprised to get a reference he recognizes. “Nothing so elementary,” he says after a moment, standing up. “Like me, you’ve inherited some of your Maker’s military training . . . so you’ll at least learn how to punch.” He offers a hand.

            Steev eyes it, then steps back, giving a soft “Alright” as he lets Tron step off the bridge.

*  *  *  *  *

            _“There you go – much better!” Tron calls out to one of the Twins while Clu watches from the Arena’s empty stands. He sets his chin in one palm, watching Tron turn to the other boy and ask_ “How’s your proficiency with other weapons? I’m not sure how well I can train you to use an oversized Disk, when I have no experience with one myself –”

            “You’re not touching my Shield,” Steev says as Clu’s eyes open, interrupting the mental projection.

            Tron’s waving a hand when Clu rolls over to look. “’Course not. We’re nowhere near that level of trust yet.” Then he pauses, blinks. “You call it a shield?”

            Steev scowls and crosses his arms in answer.

            “So you’re based off of . . .” Tron trails off, making connections, then snorts to himself. “Huh. So much for the Justice League.”

            “Batman’s gotten another good run in the last few years,” Clu says, stretching. “They’ve been trying to reboot Superman, but it’s not quite clicking with audiences, yet. Marvel’s put out a couple pretty good Iron Man movies, so they might get around to catching up.” He sits up with a grunt. “How’s it coming?”

            “Steev’s a quick study,” Tron says with a smile as he approaches, making Steev’s frown deepen for some dumb reason. “Once he has a solid team to work with, you’ll get your System back pretty quick, I think.” He sits. “How’re you feeling – You look better.”

            “I _feel_ better,” Clu grins, and pokes Tron’s thigh a few times. “This place is awesome! How’d you do it?”

            “Don’t know,” Tron says, casually smacking Clu’s hand away as he eyes the stalactites and budding hanging vines above them. “Turns out I’m a Program/User hybrid now. Maybe being used to a System able to interact with its Programs influenced me –”

            “Your System _talks_ to you?” Steev interrupts. “Freaky.”

            “In my world, a silent System’s a dead System,” Tron counters, pulling his leg away from Clu’s temptation and clasping his hands around it. (Clu pouts as) He smirks. “Other You’s in for a surprise, if the Grid doesn’t outright reject him over his attitude.”

            “Uh-oh,” Clu says, letting his questing finger drop and narrowing his eyes at his apprentice instead. “What’s he done?”

            “Just gave me some ugly looks and the silent treatment when we met,” Tron says, waving it off. “In anyone else I might call it childish but, under the circumstances and considering my reaction to Flynn last time . . .” He pauses, nose wrinkling as amusement radiates from him. “‘Restraint’ is probably the better word.”

            Clu snorts, shaking his head. “ _God_ , it’s good to see you.” He reaches out, and Tron reciprocates the hug.

            “You lost the piercings,” Tron says, knocking a knuckle against Clu’s jaw as they part.

            “Not lost; removed,” Clu corrects . . . then feels his shoulders slump as the confession spills out. “I stepped aside to pull ‘em and update my offspring and search crew on the MCP threat when –” He chokes, ducks his head.

            A hand presses on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s not your f- –”

            “Had no idea what was going on ‘til I heard Q screaming.” He continues, needing to get it out to the one Program who might understand. “I . . . by the time I got back, Alan was already on the floor, and T- –” No. That _thing_ had never been his friend. “That _bastard_ looked so smug and pleased with himself . . . all I could see was the Enemy.”

            “Damn-near ripped him to pieces, from what I hear,” Steev’s voice fades as he hunches further into himself and awaits the punishment for his failure.

            It begins with two hands grabbing his jaw and jerking his face up. “Listen to me, Clu,” Tron demands. “It’s Not. Your. Fault.”

            He blinks, a ragged exhale/inhale snagging in his throat.

            “It’s not your fault any more than it’s Quorra’s or Sam’s or _Steev’s_. It’s all on him.”

            “She won’t talk to me,” he tries to protest.

            “Pretty sure she’s only talked to me ‘cause Lora forced a situation,” Tron says, letting go and settling back to the grass. “It’s barely been ten days, on their side. I’m sure she’ll contact you soon – and she won’t blame you, either. Any more than I blame Clu . . . .”

            He drifts off – or maybe Clu stops listening. He can’t say for sure. Next thing he knows, Tron’s shaking his head and poking _his_ thigh, demanding attention. “C’mon. Time to show me what you’ve got.” He gets up and heads back to the space he’d been training Steev in.

            “What _I’ve_ got? I’m a lover, not a fighter –”

            “And yet you’re why this System’s still functional – should I call you a liar instead?”

            “Them’s fightin’ words,” Steev drawls, maybe half-serious as his eyes narrow at Tron again. Tron just smirks and raises eyebrows at him.

            Clu huffs and rolls his eyes dramatically, putting all the sullen teenager he can into it. _“Fine.”_ He shakes his finger at Tron as he stands up. “But none of that defying gravity crap you and Ram pull during your playtimes – I can barely keep hold of my Disk on _even_ ground, most days.”

            A lingering storm-cloud shifts off of Tron’s face. His eyes dance with laughter as he chews his lip.

            “What? Just spit it out –”

            “I don’t have the balls for that today, anyway.”

            The cackle rips through Clu so hard he tumbles back into the grass, making the energy flare all around them as Tron snickers at him. Steev’s circuitry turns lavender with embarrassment, only semi-understanding the genital-half of the joke as his gaze bounces nervously between the two elder Programs.

*  *  *  *  *

            They’re ganging up on him within a couple hours of course, since they’re already used to fighting as a pair. At first it’s all fun and games and there’s nothing to worry about, but as they begin to discern the gaps in his defenses and their bouts get longer, Tron feels a tension build in his chest. He reminds himself several times early on that it’s just training and there’s no real threat, but the tension keeps rising, and he makes more mistakes, leaves more openings until he has no time to think before he reacts –

            Steev’s blunted Shield slams into his side, knocking him down and sending his Disks skittering away to parts unknown as he catches himself. He gasps for air, the world narrowing and bleaching to almost colorless. A body tackles him onto his back, a weight settling over his waist as Clu crows victory –

            He barely sees the white suit and green circuitry in time to keep his power-laden hands from shoving into Clu’s chest. _“Get off me,”_ he feels himself snarl, making Clu pause.

            “Oh, _shit_ , I’m sorry,” he thinks Clu babbles, scrambling off and away. He keeps babbling as Tron rolls back onto his shins and curls up, clutching at the grass to anchor himself.

 _“Shut up,”_ he growls, closing his eyes against the red flashing through his circuitry. “Can’t hear you right now,” he adds in a slightly calmer warning/apology, then shoves his nose into the sweet smell emanating from the grass.

            A few minutes of humming silence and heavy breathing pass . . . .

            _“That’s what happened to you, isn’t it,” Steev says, his Shield dropping slightly._

_“What?” Clu asks, barely sparing him a glance._

_“When Tron attacked Quorra. I’ve heard reports that your circuitry turned red while you were taking him down. I thought it was an exaggeration – something to scare Programs into complying with your orders – but it really happened, didn’t it.”_

_“Yeah,” Clu breathes, shuffling feet making the grass chime softly. “That’s Rinzler – a part of Tron, here, that copied over to me during his last visit . . . . ‘S why we’re still alive.” They watch and wait a couple more minutes as Tron’s circuitry starts to steady out. Then Clu moves._

_“What are you –”_

_“Stay,” Clu says, putting his hand out like he’s training an animal, his own circuitry flickering with red as he picks up Tron’s Disks._

            . . . . He feels edges bump against his knuckles as he comes out of it. His eyes open, head tilting up just enough to see his Disks, partially linked before him. Movement pulls his gaze further out as Clu settles on his shins a couple arm’s-lengths away, looking serious. When panic doesn’t rear up again, he unclenches his fingers and pulls his Disks into his lap with a sigh as he straightens.

            “How long did it take for you to get the Grid back?” Clu asks once Tron’s able to meet and hold his gaze.

            “A little over a year.”

            Clu nods. “And in that year-and-change, what happened.”

            “Does it matter?”

            It makes Clu scowl for some reason. “The Grid needs you,” he says. “The Flynns need you. _Encom_ needs you.” He leans forward, his magnetism pulling Tron in too. “But that’s all time-wasting _bullshit_ if you’re not gonna fight for yourself first.”

            Tron’s breath catches as Clu sits back, Alan’s first – and only – in-person command echoing in his skull. _Fight for yourself first._

            “What happened.”

            “Starvation. Isolation. Poisoning. Beatings, when I didn’t do what they wanted fast enough.” A tremor passes through him, and he closes his eyes against the memories. “Only this time, _‘they’_ wore my friends’ and family’s faces – people I would trust with my soul, with _Alan_ , if something happened to me.” A rock rises into his throat, pushing tears out of his eyes as he bows his head. “And those who weren’t corrupted – they had to sit by and watch them break me down, waiting to find out if I was strong enough, clever enough to slip my chains and lead them out of Hell . . . .

            “And I almost failed them,” he whispers. _I didn’t have the faith in **them** that they had in me._ No ‘almost’ about it, really – he _had_ failed them. A sob squeezes its way past the rock in his throat. He feels the trembling start, and raises his head to fight for air.

            “What else,” Steev says, a crunch-tinkling from the grass suggesting he’s taken a step forward. “There’s more – I can see it,” he counters Clu’s protest. _“What else.”_

            “They’re scared of me,” Tron chokes out. “ _I’m_ scared of me – I turned the monster to ash in front of everyone, an’ I don’t know what else I can do!” His inactive Disks cut into his tight grip, and he shakily tilts them up to view as he gasps. “Jet n Jarrex even said the Portal flared open when Clu resynced my Disks to me, **_and that shouldn’t be possible!_** ”

            Something wraps around his upper body, pinning him against something; a wind brushing against his ear startles him so bad his Disks slip from his lap again. _“Breathe, Tron,”_ Sam’s voice murmurs into the clearing. _“C’mon, man. Slow and deep.”_ The slight wind gusts against his ear develop a rhythm and he slowly, hitching-ly, starts to follow it.

            _“There you go,”_ Lora’s voice says, a gentle pressure covering his hand on the desktop.

            Two more hands clasp his other one, tapping a status request into his palm, and the vise in his chest suddenly eases into a sob as relief floods him.

            _“ **I don’t know what to do** ,”_ he confesses to both worlds before retreating back into the System again. His eyes open, and he can barely stand to look at the wonder on Clu’s face. “Am I a monster, too?”

. . .

            The lingering silence and staring eyes might be worse than a _Yes_ –

            “No,” Steev decides. Tron turns to blink up him. “Not knowing your limits doesn’t make you a monster. Not knowing your limits makes you _dangerous_.”

            Tron flinches, but Steev’s eyes keep boring into him.

            “So let’s find your limits,” Steev says, offering Tron a hand.

            “How?” slips out of Tron’s mouth as he gapes at the hand.

            The hand bobs in the air as Steev shrugs. “Not a clue. Any ideas?” he asks, looking to Clu.

            Pride has replaced the wonder in Clu’s eyes when Tron looks his way again. “A lazy man would prob’ly suggest pitting you against the Enemy immediately,” he muses, tilting his head and sounding so unnervingly like the Clu of the Grid that Tron twitches with the urge to curl away. “Don’t think any of us’re ready for that, though,” he decides, a sympathetic corner of his mouth curling up as he glances Tron’s way, acknowledging the twitch. “Something smaller, then . . .” he nods to himself, looks around. “What else can you do here?”

*  *  *  *  * 

_“ **I don’t know what to do** ,” he hears his own voice say, and his eyes blink open – only he hadn’t spoken. And none of his so-called ‘offspring’ would dare to say anything like that in a space where he might overhear . . . ._

_None but one, possibly._

_A smirk grows over his mouth, and he wiggles down a little further against the projection he’s laying on. He closes his eyes again, excitement and hatred rising in tandem as he follows the signature back to its source and begins studying it._

_**These walls won’t hold me much** **longer** , he thinks, chuckling._

*  *  *  *  * 

            “Wonder what that was about,” Lora murmurs as Tron relaxes again. She pulls away from the desk reluctantly, like she doesn’t want to stop touching Tron.

            _Something’s scared him_ , Sam almost says, but catches Quorra’s gaze before he does more than take a breath to answer. _Not my secret to tell_ , he decides instead.

            They share a nod. Dad grumbles his opinion in an angry-skeptical tone that Sam doesn’t quite catch . . . and doesn’t really want to, to be honest. Quorra lets go and stands up, joining Lora in engaging with Dad to keep him distracted a little longer.

            No one else takes note of how much longer it takes Sam to ease back, only to stop and study Tron’s face from inches away, not yet ready to let go. Tron doesn’t seem as distressed anymore, but there’s still something brewing under the mask of his face.

            Sam reaches up and wipes away the tear that slipped down Tron’s cheek, the hairs of his arm raising a little under the buzzing static hinting that Tron isn’t actually human. He resists the urge to lean in and press a kiss to the Program’s temple, not ready to handle the comments and teasing if the others catch him at it – and they would. It’s just how his luck and family run.

            He wonders again at Tron’s confession a couple minutes before: _‘I don’t know what to do.’_ It sounded so helpless . . . and unnervingly familiar. Like how he’d always felt when a squad was pinned down in a firefight, and all he _could_ do for them was sit on the wrong side of the screen and watch for an opening that _might_ get them out.

            More times than he’d like to count, his guidance had only lead them into a tighter trap and gotten more killed. There are still days when he’s flabbergasted that Kyle is anywhere-near civil with him –

            He shakes the thought away and stands up, refusing to guilt-trip himself into a pity-party when there are bigger things going on – like convincing Dad not all versions of Tron have to be wiped from existence simply because one – yes, even the original – went . . . bad. ( _And why does that sound familiar?_ ) His lips compress with rage again at the memory. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, making him almost jump a little out of his own skin. _If you get a chance, take Tron to a Meeting_ , the text reads. _It’s not the same, but he needs to know he’s not alone._

            Sam’s breath catches, his eyebrows shooting up. Though he can’t explain it, he knows this isn’t his digital brother talking to him. And Tron wouldn’t speak in third-person, so it has to be –

            “Sam? Something wrong?”

            He hurries to put it back in his pocket while trying to pretend he’s not rushing to hide anything. “Nah,” he says. “Just a surprising note from a friend.”

            He’s pretty sure Lora isn’t fooled, but she lets it slide.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did things kinda come out of nowhere, or does it make sense? Should I have warned for punny humor (did you get the joke)?  
> Six-ish months after writing this, it feels like a whole 'nother story from the one I'm working on, maybe 'cause we're still in the fallout from Renegade here, and I'm beyond that now  so it feels kinda . . . weird?


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking in on the Grid while Tron's off adventuring . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me forever to find the beginning of this chapter . . . now it seems almost unnecessary? IDK, maybe it'll find it's way back 'round.

**Chapter 3**

_It shouldn’t – he knows it shouldn’t – but the humming is getting on his nerves. “Can you please stop,” he finally snaps. “I know it’s the only song we have, but you’re driving me crazy!”_

_Silence. Blessed sile- –_

_“No it’s not,” Mara says._

_Zed bites back another snap. “What.”_

_“It’s not the only song we have,” she says, giving him a weird look before launching into “R.E.S.P.E.C.T – find out what it means to me –”_

_“It’s just another brick in the Wall –” someone chants in counterpoint._

_“I NEED A HERO-O-OH!” another screeches._

_Zed winces and thumps his head against the lightrunner he’s working on, pretty sure he’s going to regret asking, “Why aren’t you singing **those** songs, then – why keep going back to that one?”_

_Mara’s mouth opens – then shuts as she blinks, thinking it over. She shrugs. “It’s a comfort, I guess. Like a mantra –”_

_“There’s more than one song?” Paige asks, eyes sparkling as she walks into the garage. “Who’s recording them? I want ‘em **all**!” She grabs at a Program, demanding a song; snags another before the first verse ends. A third loiters with a chorus, and within minutes, Paige is at the center of a teeming mass of Programs demanding her attention._

_“The MP3s are going out of business soon, aren’t they,” Zed says, already despairing._

_Mara snorts. “Only if Paige can sing,” she says, setting her tools aside. She claps for attention as she approaches the group, cheerfully telling her friend-slash-rival to stop cluttering up her garage. Zed watches the group disperse to just outside while Paige asks Mara if Beck’s around. “No,” Mara says. “He had a meeting with his Uncles – honest – and business is incredibly light right now, anyway.”_

_Zed’s teeth grit as the racket continues to rise. He wishes for sound dampeners as he turns back to his work._

_He misses the quiet._

*  *  *  *  *

            The new Program has settled like an itch in the back of his mind, standing barely a stride behind his right shoulder.

            He knows he should be comforted – even honored – that Sam Flynn would give him a guardian and companion so intent on helping and protecting him . . . but the constant sense of being watched leaves him feeling like Jarvis has revived, and he’s once again on his own fighting off an unwelcome presence no one else sees as questionable, let alone a threat.

            Jet’s gaze flicks between him and Steev again, a guardedness in the hybrid’s expression that Clu _hates_ seeing. The only ally he knows is slipping away, suspicious of him. (He can feel the history repeating itself, and Clu knows he’s not strong enough to handle a second round. Not alone.) He swallows, only realizing in that moment that he’d been humming. His eyes go wide, and he can feel the plea in them.

            Jet smirks, humor rising – then everyone’s focus is jerked to the new pair of Programs entering the command center.

            “What’s _he_ doing here?” Jet’s Twin snarls, and Clu fails to not flinch. Steev edges closer, making his teeth grind as he tenses further.

            “Tron’s giving him a second chance, so we will too,” Ram answers, though he doesn’t sound too pleased – or confident – about it.

            “And where is Dear ol’ Dad – off playing in the User world again?”

            “Looking into why his Originator would attack our mother and almost kill Alan – you _do_ remember our grandfather, don’t you,” Jet shoots back, approaching his brother.

            Both new Program freeze mid-step in shock, the Twin’s jaw dropping. Jet hugs him before he can recover.

            “This isn’t Sam Flynn, then?” the other Program says, his greeting smile disappearing before he nods Clu’s – no, _Steev’s_ – way.

            “No,” Jet says, releasing his brother. He clasps the other Program’s shoulder as he turns to look back at them. “Steev, meet Jarrex, the Grid’s sneakiest Program –”

            “Says the actual sneakiest,” Clu retorts, then blinks, realizing he’s echoed Jarrex and Ram, who smirk and frown respectively.

            A grin flashes across Jet’s face. “Jarrex, meet Sam’s latest Creation – seems he’s been trained by Encom’s Clu, so he has things a little backwards for the Grid.”

            Jarrex’s expression flattens again. “Is Sam as bad at planning as his father?” he asks, looking to Clu.

            “Not . . . as bad,” Clu says hesitantly, eyes darting around when no one else answers. His weight shifts as he analyzes their brief meetings before adding, “He seems to realize there are consequences for his actions, and prepares to handle them to some degree –”

            “Sam generally anticipates the board four or five steps ahead, to Flynn’s one or two,” Ram jumps in. “Still has Flynn-levels of impulsiveness,” he rolls his eyes and shrugs. “But he’s a Flynn, so what can we expect.”

            Jarrex nods faintly, his head bowing a little as he absorbs the information. Then he straightens and looks past Clu’s shoulder to Steev. “Greetings, Steev,” he says, nodding again. “Welcome to the Grid.”

            “Greetings, Jarrex,” Steev replies, sounding grumpy – which is understandable, Clu supposes. No Program wants to hear anything negative about their User-Creator, no matter how true, indirect, or mild the comment might be.

            A moment of awkward silence passes, no one sure where to take the conversation next.

            “Steev,” Jet starts. “Let’s get your sleeping quarters situated – if you’re up for it, maybe we can take a tour of the Grid after –”

            “I’m fine right here, tha- –”

            “Go with Jet,” Clu feels himself say, hope flaring in his chest.

            “But Sir –”

            “I can’t be any safer than I am right here and now,” Clu says, though it might be overstating things. He ~~hears breaths catch as he~~ waves the Program off. “Shoo.”

            A hurt pout blooms briefly on Steev’s face, only to get buried under a blank mask. “Yes, Sir.”

            Jet’s Twin (Beck? He wants to say it’s Beck) and Jarrex trade places with Steev and Jet as the pair head for the elevator. Clu hears Jet murmur something about dirty laundry ( _?_ ) to Steev as the door hisses open. Then air rushes out of Clu a second after they begin their descent. He takes a deep breath in, his knees wobbling with relief at not having to perform anymore. The wobble becomes shaking, and he raises a hand to wipe at his face as the world darkens –

            Something clamps down on a shoulder, making him almost jump out of his skin. “Do you need to sit down?” he thinks Jarrex asks through the static.

            “YeahIthinkIdo,” he says, and a moment later something’s pressing against the backs of his legs. He tumbles into it with a grunt, the grip on his shoulder shifting to the back of his neck as he leans forward and gasps for air.

            The grip has the slightest degree of warmth to it, anchoring him to here-and-now as he fights off the memories of what he’s escaped. Its thumb rubs along the base of his hairline, gently drawing him back to the present again –

            And the two not-so-friendly Programs staring at him when he’s able to see again.

            “If you think a play at weakness would soften us –”

            “Tron’s done something like that,” Ram murmurs, cutting Beck off. “Usually when fighting off Rinzler’s attempts to surface . . . . What’re we missing?”

            “Jarvis would hover around him like that,” Jarrex says, his hand sliding from Clu’s neck; Clu misses it instantly. “A constant presence and barrier against potential influences that could turn its prize possession to another path. . . . Is that about right?”

            Tears of relief burn in Clu’s eyes as he nods. ( _Someone understands_.) “Tried to . . . give Programs new names, give ‘em a barrier to shield themselves from what he was doing.”

            Jarrex huffs a laugh, pulling further away. “Planning one-or-two steps ahead – not so different from the Renegade, really.” Only he pauses, kneels to face Clu. “If that’s the case, why doesn’t Yori have a second name? Why don’t you –?”

            “He had hold of us, on the old System,” Clu tries to explain, the panic ebbing away. His eyes close against the memories for a moment. “Best I could do was not notice what she was up to – he wouldn’t allow for anything else. We were another dig at Flynn; at Tron and Alan1. For their failure.”

            Air sighs out of Jarrex’s nose, sympathy radiating off him as he nods. “Prideful little bastard, wasn’t he.”

            A weak huff escapes Clu. “If you wanna be gentle about it.”

            Beck scoffs again. “You’re still not fooling us –”

            “He’d have to be lying to do that,” Jarrex says, standing up. “What was Jet saying about Tron’s Originator – _attacking_ Users?”

            “We don’t have much else to go on,” Ram says, letting the subject shift. “Apparently something’s managed to corrupt him into becoming the exact opposite of what he was made for –”

            “That’s how the MCP works,” Clu says, a chill shooting through him. _Oh God, what if it wasn’t just **here**? _He looks to Ram, locking eyes with the other Program. “We might have World War Three around the corner.”

            Ram eyes him, jaw clenching before he nods, coming to the same conclusion.

*  *  *  *  * 

            Jet can’t decide if he should be irritated or amused with Steev’s attitude. He thinks he understands why Steev is acting grumpy and stubborn, but the kid barely gets out the grunts necessary to answer in the positive or negative for everything he’s asked so far. And Jet’s . . . hesitant to make assumptions without further proof.

            Sam wasn’t _nearly_ as ornery, even after Jet practically threatened him –

            [Jet! _SAM!_ ]

            He’s shoved into a wall before he can pinpoint where the pings are coming from, Steev’s Disk flaring to overlarge life as the Program snarls at –

            – Bug skids to a stop a few feet away, his antennae waving with surprised enquiry. Yori’s head pops out from a doorway a few yards further down the hallway, everything freezing in tableau. Then Bug slowly raises his forelegs. [Cap…tain?], he asks.

            “We were just coming to see you, Bug,” Jet says, standing again and brushing past Steev to scoop up his half-sibling. Bug props himself up on Jet’s shoulder, their circuitry brightening as an antenna tickles at Jet’s ear; he mostly succeeds at not making a face. “Greetings, Yori. How goes the fight?”

            “Mostly won,” she says, fighting back a smile. “We need a good rainstorm to clear out the rubble in a few places, so we can figure out what else needs work – and Bug needs a nap.”

            [Do not!]

            “You and Maya both, I bet –” Jet starts to tease.

            “You’re working _with gridbugs_?” Steev almost squeals with outrage. A star shape pulses once at the center of his Disk when Jet turns to look, the power changing colors as it spreads outward to the two circles surrounding it. ( _Interesting. Wonder what that’s about_.) “What kind of insanity authorized that – and they _communicate_ –?”

            “Bug’s your brother as much as I am. Maybe moreso,” Jet cuts him off, kneeling to release his sibling, “since he was Created directly by Sam’s hand the last time he was here.”

            “It’s a _gridbug_ –”

            “ _He_ is a major part of why we’re able to have this argument.” Jet corrects, straightening to protect Bug’s retreat as more heads pop out of doorways. Steev mimics him, but doesn’t deactivate his Disk. It sparks a flame inside that Jet tries to ignore. “Bug helped Tron –”

            “Tron,” Steev sneers. “That MCP-loving _traitor_ –”

            Steev and his Disk go flying backward, slamming into a wall before Jet can comprehend the tingle of contact rolling up his arm. Jet’s hovering over him a breath after that, one knee pressing the Disk into Steev’s chest as he enunciates, “Listen closely, _child_.” He can feel Programs gathering behind him; hears a few Disks activating, but dismisses the possible threat. “Our worlds might be peopled by names and faces you recognize, but they have lived _very_ different lives. The sooner you learn that,” he leans in closer, “the sooner you stop antagonizing us and _terrorizing_ Clu, the sooner you can be of help to _everyone_.” Steev blinks, something like comprehension beginning to dawn over his features. “Until then, you are a hazard and a threat we cannot tolerate. Understand?”

            “Yes, Sir,” Steev breathes.

            “Daddy?” Maya calls out from the crowd, and an instant later Jet’s cradling his daughter to his chest, murmuring soothing nonsense as he pets her hair and tries to calm himself down. He feels her head turn and tilt slightly to eye the new Program as her shivering eases, and he wrestles with the urge to block her view –

            “How do you know anything about the MCP,” Yori’s voice asks, the crowd parting as everyone turns her way. Her face darkens with a scowl, the green of her circuitry flares, and her chin dips to level a glare at Steev. “And how _dare_ you claim Tron’s it’s ally.”

*  *  *  *  * 

            “The war ain’t over yet, is it,” she declares, storming into the room with Jet and Steev trailing behind. “There’s another MCP still out there, and it’ll find us eventually.”

            “We were beginning to suspect as much,” Ram says, his shoulders slumping. “I assume Steev has told you more?”

            She nods. “It’s not just at Encom – when Tron derezzed it back in the eighties, it released all of its appropriated Programs with a worm-virus that’s been passed down through the generations ever since. It’s _everywhere_ now, and is working to make Encom its home again. What’re we gonna do about it?”

            “What _can_ we do?” Jarrex asks. “We live in an outmoded computer in a virtually-abandoned building in an almost-forgotten neighborhood –”

            “Don’t play Devil’s Advocate with me, Jare –”

            “We’ve barely begun healing from our own experience,” Clu shoots back, silencing both of them. “What help could we be, when we’re still so damaged?”

            “‘Will you let your pain define you as a victim, or will you use your experience to protect others?’” Steev counters, and all eyes turn to him. He shrugs, almost shrinking into himself under the attention. “At least, that’s what my D- uh, what my Clu says.”

            _So have Alan and Tron_ , the others think but don’t say, exchanging glances.

            Jarrex shuffles his feet after a moment of contemplation. “Okay,” he sighs. “Are we talking individual Programs moving over, or a full merging of Systems?”

            “I doubt individual Programs’ll cut it,” Jet steps in, shaking his head. “It took practically the entire Grid rebelling for us to purge our MCP, and we’d been fighting it the moment it showed up. We’ll need the complete System at our back to have a chance against this one.”

            “Not everyone’ll want to go,” Beck points out, the set of his jaw indicating he’ll be among the reluctant – if not the outright rebellious. “How’re you going to convince them?”

            Mouths open and eyes dart around, everyone wanting someone else to have the answer.

            Finally Ram sighs, rubs his eyes, and says, “It’ll ultimately be a majority rule, which’ll likely begin with how we broach the subject . . . . Any ideas?”

 


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to Encom System: How different is Tron from his predecessor?

**Chapter 4**

            They eventually leave the glade to the care of the Bits, bugs, and butterfly-like creatures Tron’s created, and start heading back to the City after a brief moment of ogling each other’s lightcycles. (Tron’s and Steev’s might be the most similar, since they’re both based off of Sam’s work from his round in the lightcycle Arena. Zed’s alterations shine in ways that intrigue Steev . . . and Clu only half-pretends not to be a little jealous of both, though he clearly only understands about a third of what they’re talking about.)

            Clu tries to provide a helpful distraction by way of summarizing _their_ last year-and-change as Tron’s sense of System life ebbs further and further away, but it’s not quite enough. The growing silence settles like an irritating itch in the back of his mind, leaving him tense and uneasy. “I don’t remember it being this quiet last time,” he eventually says, interrupting Clu as they cross the rubble-strewn border between City and wasteland. “In fact, I remember saying it was really loud – has your internet connection been damaged?”

            “We’ve shut it down to its minimal internal functions,” Steev says, his ‘cycle revving up to Tron’s side on the smoothed road. “We’re hoping to avoid spreading the infection – or downloading more, as Dillinger isn’t the only source.”

            “Where else is it coming from?”

            “Everywhere,” Clu grumbles through the intercom. “It’s infiltrated everything from preschool reading Programs, to banking statement downloads, to military and government organizations. Even a few charities and fandom archives have been hit –”

            “Military,” Tron breathes, his ‘cycle rolling to a stop in the middle of an abandoned street. Steev slows to a stop next to him, and Clu circles around again to regroup, their helmets disengaging for conversation when he stops. “Shortly after I – after _he_ was first made, the MCP had to drastically shift the Games competition from one-on-one bouts between data pushers and insurance brokers to Programs with more . . . _expertise_ in warfare,” he tries to explain, still thinking things through. “When that barely slowed me down, it started setting me up with fighting three and four at once, which earned me a reputation.”

            “ _He fights for the Users_ ,” Clu breathes, straightening on his lightcycle.

            Tron nods, mouth twitching with a smile, then a chill races through him. “I threw my Disk straight into its core,” he says. “If it could latch a piece of itself into Flynn, why not its fellow Programs . . . why not me?”

            “You really think Alan or Rinzler would let –”

            “I’m an ancient copy of a potentially infected Program,” Tron cuts Clu off. “Rinzler was an Iso born of an infected User and a System fighting for its survival. Unless Alan spotted and removed any irregularities before I was copied over into the Grid . . .” _and if so, how did it re-infect Senior_ goes unsaid. He swallows and shakes his head, feeling sick as he turns to Steev. “Keep an eye on me. I might start to flip like _he_ did.”

            Steev hums vaguely, his eyes narrowing like he wants to disagree. “Dillinger’s mentioned the MCP had gotten into the Pentagon before your shutdown . . . and while the name of Tron is lauded in many Systems, it’s the name _Flynn_ that’s revered.”

            “Sergeant _War Games_ ,” Clu murmurs like a revelation, his weight shifting as Tron turns to look at him, confused. “You think –”

            “SamIAm’s original intent in Creating me was to figure out what the junk code getting passed from Program to Program was. To eliminate it, if it turned out as problematic as he suspected.” Steev’s wandering gaze zeros back on Tron. “I’ve seen none of that in you.”

            “I come from a System that’s been fighting an MCP that’s evolved differently over the last quarter-century,” Tron argues back. “While that one’s been eliminated, the source material in individual Programs may not be –”

            “If you want me staring at you,” Steev says, eyelids going heavy as a smirk grows, “just say so. No need to invent excuses.”

            Tron’s jaw drops –

            “ _Easy_ there, cowboy,” Clu cautions, laughter in his voice. “That’s Sam’s territory you’re poking at.”

            Steev blinks multiple times in quick procession. “Wha- ew, _Daaad_!”

            “You started it, kid. I’m just warnin’ ya.” Tension broken, Clu grins and revs his ‘cycle, turning it back the way they were headed. “Now that’s settled,” he says before Tron can reiterate his concern. “Can we get a move on? This sector’s creeping me out.”

            Tron wants to protest, but bites it back into a sigh. Nothing can really be done about the possibility right now, anyway. He’ll just have to trust that they’ll have a way to keep him in line if he starts glitching like Senior has.

            And maybe, having been warned, they’ll catch it before he hurts anyone.

*  *  *  *  * 

_His spy retreats slightly as they continue on, and he briefly considers disintegrating it before getting distracted with what he’s learned. This copy is such an **idiot** , so easily expressing its fears, doubts, and weaknesses out in the open to Programs it barely even knows that he’d be impressed if it could defeat a **gridbug** by this point, let alone a being as smart and powerful as the MCP._

_Rage makes the light of his circuitry surge – and it has the **audacity** to think Tron might’ve allowed that ancient enemy get its hooks into him? HAH!_

_He’ll show that self-serving little **brat** what the real Tron’s made of soon enough._

_(Sectors away, the gridbug poofs into dust with an unheard squeak of protest.)_

*  *  *  *  * 

            The group they meet outside the Arena is tense and leery of him on sight – completely understandable, considering how Senior treated other Programs just in the time Tron had known him. Having Clu and Steev backing him up helps, but he has to get them to trust _him_ before he can begin teaching them anything –

            “You’re the Tron who laughs,” a female data-pusher suddenly says. “The Tron who apologizes.”

            “I –”

            “There’s a Tron with _manners_?” a male pipes up, looking skeptical; Steev snorts behind him. “I gotta see this.”

            Tron can’t help spluttering internally as they all turn to stare at him. _Like a bug under a microscope_ , he thinks before finding his words again. “I . . . did those things, last time I was here – did Senior never _laugh_?” he asks, looking to Clu.

            “I might’ve gotten him to chuckle a few times, in the early years,” Clu says, thinking it over. Then he sends sly eyes back to Tron, humor brightening his circuitry. “He’s _definitely_ never cracked a joke in my hearing.”

            “All work and no play,” Steev murmurs, nodding like it’s some kind of secret insight no one else thought of –

            “He had no one to play _with_ ,” Tron counters, the sudden reminder mentally slamming him back a step even as he looks to them. “You were probably the closest to an equal he had,” he says, nodding to Clu. “But he’d been alone so long by that point that he’d already cut himself off.” He feels his shoulders slump, empathy swamping him. “Like our Creators, we’re not meant to work in isolation . . . and closing down made him easy pickings for corruption.” His head bows, his eyes closing as he remembers his own battle with hopelessness barely a year before . . . and _he’d_ had help waiting for him. If he’d been as alone as he’d thought –

            “ _Wow_ ,” someone breathes, jerking him back into the present.

            “Sympathy for the devil,” another voice agrees as his eyes open and he faces the group again. “You’re good people,” the female decides. “What do you have to teach us?”

            Tron’s eyes widen and dart around, taking in the relaxed body language and more-open expressions of the Programs watching him. _It’s like a magic trick – but what did I **do**?_ he thinks wildly. He swallows instead. “I’m new here, so . . . let’s start with who you are and what you already know, then we’ll work our way out from there.”

            Jaws drop. “Can we keep this one?” the female asks, giving Clu a pleading look.

            Clu’s mouth opens . . . then he hesitates, a spark lighting in his eyes.

            “You try screwing with me, Clu,” Tron says, a smirk pulling at his mouth, “I’ll screw right back. Then I’m giving Steev _Ideas_.” He waggles a finger at his friend, Steev perking up hopefully as Clu’s eyes go comically wide. “Just warnin’ ya.” [ _And I’ve raised Flynns, remember_ ], he adds in a ping.

            He can’t help chuckling as Clu hurriedly shakes his head, murmuring that’s not what he was thinking, anyway.

*  *  *  *  * 

            {“What the hell’s taking so long?”

            Sam glances at his watch. “It hasn’t been thirty minutes yet, Dad. How long do you think it takes to save the world?”

            “Thirty minutes here is thirty hours there,” Quorra slurs through her drowsiness, then yawns further awake. “How bad did the System get?”}

*  *  *  *  *

            “Do you see what I see?” he asks, sitting back in the stands while they watch the group spar in pairs.

            Clu’s eyes narrow. “He’s still dropping his Shield arm,” he says. “I’ve pointed it out at least a half-dozen times –”

            “It’s a feint, more often than not,” Tron says. “What else.”

            “. . . His stance might still be a little too wide –”

            “Steev’s not the only fighter you have,” Tron reminds him. “What do you see on the others.”

            Clu’s eyes dart around. “. . . What should I be looking for?”

            Tron’s mouth opens, but he hesitates. Then shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says instead. “I shouldn’t assume having combat experience means you know what you’re seeing in a more formal setting.” He nods. “Steev’s stance _is_ wider than I’d like, but he’s compensating for Tarjeet’s hesitance – he didn’t do it with me in the glade earlier, so I’m not too worried.” He points. “Hamaley’s projecting her every move so greatly that yelling what she’ll do next might help distract her opponent –” A shout yanks their attention to the far corner, where one Program is rushing to another’s side. “And then there’s the real problem I’m seeing,” he murmurs, jumping out of the stands to join the flow surrounding the injured Program.

            Clu follows in Tron’s wake, at a loss for what the ‘real problem’ might be. Steev’s already at the center of the crowd, gently maneuvering the Program’s flickering arm as the Program winces.

            “How is he, Steev?” Tron asks.

            “Minor injury, I think,” Steev reports, pressing the Program’s arm back to his side. “A few minutes’ reset’ll tell me more.”

            Tron nods then takes a knee, startling everyone. “What happened?”

            “You weren’t watching?” Marjo snaps at him, breaths catching and tension rising as everyone prepares for a traditional Tron ranting rampage.

            “A rephrase,” Tron concedes with a mild nod. “What went wrong.”

            The Program – Marjo’s mate, Clu thinks – pulls his feet in, almost cowering against Marjo’s side as he eyes Tron and says, “I didn’t jump high enough to complete my twist before landing.”

            Tron nods again. “And why were you doing such an elaborate evasion when a simple duck or sidestep would do?”

            Clu’s not the only one who blinks his surprise in the ensuing silence. This is not the usual script –

            “Were you looking to impress someone?” Tron asks – actually asks, no rhetorical mockery in his voice – tilting his head to recapture the Program’s dipping gaze.

            “No, Sir,” he mutters, tensions hiking again.

            A confused frown develops over Tron’s features as he waits for further explanation. When nothing comes, he shakes his head. “Then why do it?”

            “I’ve been running into this a lot since my Resolution here,” Steev breaks in. “Apparently Senior didn’t believe in basic defensive moves when elaborate evasions and attacks were so much more interesting to watch – at least, that’s the best I can figure it.”

            “That’s stupid,” Tron says, everyone but Steev wincing as – “Combat rarely has need for fancy maneuvers made for entertainment. You’re more likely to get yourself killed – either by wasting energy you’ll need later, or by a Program that’s seen your best moves and had the time to figure out a counter-attack.”

            “That’s why there’re so few of us left. No one wants to listen to the new guy when the old tyrant’s busy trying to kill you.” Steev nods to the Programs around them. “These’ve only fought when they had no other choice. That’s why they’re still alive.”

            Tron nods acknowledgement, already in deep thought. “Alright. Let’s rewind and start over.” He stands and offers a hand up that Steev immediately takes. “You and I will do a basic spar for the first few rounds, then you start adding the moves you’ve seen and I’ll counteract them. Clu,” he turns Clu’s way. “Hover around the edges. As things get more complicated, use your Disk to show where we’re leaving ourselves open –”

            “You sure?” Clu asks. “It won’t trigger another flashback?”

            Tron’s mouth twitches, but he takes a minute to think about it. “Long as you don’t physically get involved, I think I’ll be okay.”

            Uneasy looks are exchanged in the group at that, but the trainees disperse into the stands, leaving the trio on the Arena floor. Clu leans back against the wall, watching the other two begin to circle each other.

            “Have etiquette rules changed over the last thirty years?” Tron suddenly asks after a couple minutes of silence. “I remember being gravely insulted when Flynn called me Alan when we first met. You haven’t corrected me when I talk about Sam, but you also use a more formal designation when you name him.”

            “Ours is a very elite group,” Clu tells him from the wall before Steev can answer. “These days, most Users float between anonymous and having multiple names – sometimes both on the same System – and use groups of Programs, rather than one or two exclusively.” His arms cross as he warms to the subject. “It’s also very rare to have a one-to-one correlation for Program and User in the Creation process. Then there’s the fact that we have no direct way to communicate with them – if you exempt Quorra, since she’s half-Program anyway, then there’s only Flynn . . . and then, only in far-distant memory.”

            Tron pauses as Steev feigns a lunge, then they keep circling. “So Flynn’s Flynn and Quorra’s Quorra because they’ve been here. Sam hasn’t though.”

            Clu shrugs. “You’ve met him. That gives you a little more wiggle room.” Tron blocks a punch with an almost-idle wave of his hand. “Until Steev came, he’s always just been Sam because that’s what Q calls him. And in the Army, he learned not to question or challenge his superiors unless it was some big, problematic thing he could back up with evidence.”

            “And Steev’s based from that experience,” Tron nods, hopping over a leg sweep. “Understandable in battle situations and maybe training; unnecessary for general interaction –”

            “Shouldn’t you be focusing?” Steev asks, unleashing a barrage that Tron easily dances through.

            “I’ve got thirty years’ experience on you, kid,” he says, finally breaking away. “Distracting myself helps to balance the field so you –”

            “Well, knock it off!” Steev half-shouts with frustration, closing in with a new flurry that ends nanoseconds later when Tron catches a flyaway fist and twists its arm behind Steev’s back.

            “Jet’s style and Beck’s impatience,” Clu hears Tron murmur into Steev’s ear before letting the boy go. “The best teachers refuse to stop learning. Show me what you’ve got.”

            Steev stays frozen in place for a moment, then shakes his head back into the game. Clu’s inactive Disk smacks into him a second later.

            “Little too soon for that, Clu,” Tron says mildly as Steev turns affronted puppy eyes at him – then Tron lightly smacks the other side of Steev’s head while Clu chuckles. “Round two.”

            They continue for the next several rounds, steadily getting more complicated as time passes. Steev relaxes and improves drastically, though he’s still the one Clu’s Disk hits nine times out of ten – Tron just catches and sends it back with a smirk every time it heads for him.

            So Clu starts circling the pair, challenging himself to hit his friend and give the kid an opening. It takes a while, but he thinks he catches a blind spot while a bout gets particularly frenzied, and angles himself to be dead-center at Tron’s back. When the pair part for a breather, he sends his Disk out.

            Tron’s circuitry flickers, and suddenly he’s running full-speed at Steev – Steev’s eyes go wide, his Shield almost materializing on his arm as he braces for a tackle. Tron kicks out instead, using him as a launchpad to flip himself, twisting in midair to land on one knee with both Disks out and activated, a grimace on his face. A rumbling purr rolls out of him, red becoming more prominent as his focus narrows on Clu.

            Fear freezes Clu for about a second. “Now, see, that’s the kind of Tron move we’ve been trained to expect and use,” he points out, plucking his rebounding Disk from the air. “If it’s okay for you to use it, why’s it stupid for us to mimic you?”

            Tron blinks. Takes a deep breath as red smooths back to white again. His eyes close. “You have the perfect shot, Steev. Why haven’t you taken it?” he calls out instead.

            “Can’t. Breathe,” Steev gasps, rolling up onto an elbow and wobbling.

            Both elder Programs turn, Tron’s Disks deactivating and resyncing as they rush to his side. “Sit up, arms over your head,” Tron says, his hands reaching out as Steev wobbles again. “Breathe as deep and slow as you can. Reset your diaphragm.”

            Clu pulls Steev’s Shield off his arm and resyncs it to his dock as he follows instructions. Then he braces the kid’s back as Steev wobbles again.

            “Hit your head pretty hard,” Tron comments, nudging Steev’s chin up.

            “I’ll be f . . . fine,” Steev tries to protest.

            “Yeah, you will,” Tron agrees with a small smile and burst of healing energy. Then he turns to the audience Clu forgot they had. “Moves like that should be kept at a minimum – partly to conserve your energy and withhold the element of surprise, but mostly because they just aren’t needed. Your skill should shine in things like accuracy and endurance, not in fancy moves when you’re in the middle of a life-and-death battle. You’ll never know if a bigger bad isn’t watching from the fringes, waiting –”

            “BUG!” someone shouts, and a half-dozen Disks fly out from the stands to shatter a single gridbug climbing over the opposite wall. Tron winces slightly as the voxels fall.

            Clu reaches out and clasps Tron’s hand over Steev’s chest, as both a gesture of comfort and a warning. “Gridbugs have eaten away most of our City,” he says. “This Arena is one of only three strongholds we have left – your glade might count as a fourth, now – and I’m pretty sure it only stands because it’s one of _his_ favorite places.”

            “Really.” Tron stands and jogs to the melting voxels, scooping up a handful. Clu and Steev exchange glances and a shrug as he ambles back, waterfalling the pebbles from hand to hand – only to stop at the dead-center of the Arena, like something’s snagged him. He presses the pebbles between his palms, eyes already starting to glow as he takes a deep breath and kneels. Steev straightens in Clu’s arms as Tron breathes out, a soft ripple of power making the grid fluctuate and pale yellow lines of code spring out.

            _“He’s fuckin’ **Neo** ,”_ someone whispers as they watch fragments blink in and out and rearrange themselves, making Clu smirk. It’s not an _inaccurate_ likeness, he figures, but Tron’s _so_ much cooler than Keanu Reeves.

            “This is how your brother Bug was made,” he murmurs against Steev’s hair. He makes an aborted gesture at Tron’s rolling hands, drawing Steev’s gaze there. “Tron figured out how to subvert the MCP’s leftovers and build his own ‘bugs ages ago. Sam took that and ramped it up to eleven, blasting his own coding into the ball he held so hard that the balcony they were standing on threatened to collapse under him. By the time Tron got his attention back, the storm his emotions had built up could’ve toppled the mountain and half of New City. It took Tron and Ram almost three hours to funnel all that power into reservoirs under the Grid’s surface, even after Bug developed a pulse.”

            “Think I’ll ever meet him?”

            An idea he had earlier starts percolating in Clu’s head again. “Maybe,” he says, “if we play our cards right.”

            Steev turns to him. “What cards –?”

            Another ripple goes out, turning the coding blue-green as Tron’s hands still, relax, and open for a grasshopper-like creature to peek out at them between his fingers. Something howls in the distance, a rumble of thunder overhead drowning it out as Clu looks up at the roiling clouds.

            The Programs in the stands murmur and shuffle amongst themselves, awed and leery again in ways even Tron’s brief Rinzler flash hadn’t caused.

            “Hey, Jiminy,” Steev calls, pulling Clu’s gaze back down to earth. “Quit bein’ creepy.”

            The grasshopper launches itself from Tron’s palms with a tiny screech and flies into Steev’s face, chittering in angry binary at him.

            “They can talk?” Clu asks, blinking his surprise. “When did that happen?”

            “Bug’s the only one who really can, so far,” Tron says the glow still fading from his eyes as they open. “I haven’t found a way to duplicate it yet . . . not entirely sure I should, either. It might be a strictly User-generated thing or something that develops naturally, for all I know.” He stands, staggering a little before taking steps back toward them. “Isn’t Jiminy a cricket?”

            (“You realize I have no idea what you’re saying, right?” Steev tells the new bug, offering it a finger to perch on as it’s chittering winds down. It huffs, flapping its wings like it’s trying to puff itself up, then settles and goes quiet.)

            “Crickets are smaller and generally can’t fly very far,” Clu agrees, nodding at the disconnect. “He _did_ respond to the name, though.”

            Tron huffs a chuckle. “Jiminy it is, then.” He sits with them again, the fingers of his bracing hand briefly shuffling in the dirt-like substance gathering on the Arena’s grid as he props the other hand over a knee. “Your Arena’s coding is similar to mine. I took the liberty to alter the programming for re-rezzing Programs who’ve disintegrated here, so Senior will no longer have access – it’s a major part of how the MCP almost killed the Grid.”

            “I thought that was only active for the Games,” Clu says.

            “It’s not,” Tron sighs, looking tired as he rubs one side of his face –

            _“Hey, Tron?”_ Sam’s voice cuts in, making several Programs yelp in the stands. _“It’s the back end of lunch time out here. If you wanna join us, you’ll have to wrap things up soon.”_

            Tron’s stomach gurgles in answer as the slight pressure of Sam’s presence eases back into the clouds again.

            “You’re due for a break,” Clu decides before Tron can react. “And we need some time to practice and patrol, not to mention weather the storm you’ve brewed up. Go eat with them, get some rest, then swing back around in a couple-three hours.”

            Tron eyes him, analyzing him wearily as a smirk pulls at his mouth. “Yes, Mother,” he acquiesces before he gently fades away.

            (Jiminy hops from Steev’s finger to his shoulder as they watch, chittering something that feels like a question. Then he launches himself into the space where Tron’s face was a moment later, scattering the last few barely-there particles of energy.)

 “What’s your idea, Dad?” Steev asks, turning to look at him. Lightning flashes and thunder booms, pulling their eyes skyward again.

            “Let’s get everyone to safety first,” Clu says, using the excuse to stall a little longer. “I suspect we’re in for a doozy of a storm.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinion check: Would you rather I take the next couple weeks off to avoid more distractions during the coming holidays, or would you rather have an excuse to be distracted for a time?


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bridging the world(s) between Systems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ringing in 2019 with a new chapter. Hope y'all's Christmases/seasonal holiday went well, and you're ready to get back on this boat.

**Chapter 5**

            Tron looks exhausted when he returns to them – exhausted and sad. He sighs, shoulders slumping as their entangled hands retreat from Dad’s desk.

            Sam almost doesn’t want to know. “How’s it going?”

            “Much longer and Encom would be dead,” Tron says, then takes a deep breath. “It may still be too late, if I’ve scared the other survivors too badly.” His eyes close, then he looks up to Sam. “Who-or-what is Neo? Is it a good thing to be likened to?”

            Confused glances are exchanged before Quorra asks, “What’s the context?”

            “I heard a Program named Hamaley say it while I was rearranging the code to a Games Arena we were training in.”

            Something like a snort escapes Quorra’s mouth before she bites her lip, wet eyes sparkling with humor. “Neo’s the hero of a turn-of-the-millennium movie trilogy about humans fighting their way free of an AI overlord. Hamaley probably has a crush on the actor.” She chuckles. “And you might have a converted fangirl.”

            “Again, good thing or bad thing?” Tron murmurs, his fingers tightening around Sam’s before releasing him.

            Sam breathes an awkward laugh and hopes he isn’t blushing too obviously.

            Quorra’s eyes narrow playfully their way. “You laugh now, but just you wait. Fandom’s gonna save the world one day.”

            “Before or after they decide Dean’s eye color?” Sam teases.

            Quorra rolls her eyes at him. “ _Misha_ will give us our marching orders when he deems us ready.”

            “So what’re we eating?” Dad asks, returning from the restrooms. “I need outta this damn building –” he jerks to a stop and scowls when he sees Tron’s back with them.

            “It’s almost time for me to head for the airport,” Lora says, smacking Dad’s arm as she stands. “ _You_ give me a lift. We’ll eat on the way.”

            Dad rubs his arm and pouts, but (surprisingly) doesn’t argue.

            “Give Roy my love,” she continues, then points in Sam-and-Tron’s direction. “And tell Alan he’s not allowed any heroics until the weekend _at the earliest_.”

            Sam tries to chuckle; mostly fails.

            “Come along, Flynn,” she says, and exits like a queen before anyone can respond.

            “D.C.’s been good for her,” Tron murmurs, a spark of humor returning to his voice.

            “Most men call her bossy.” Quorra says, testing him.

            Tron’s brow wrinkles. “She _is_ a boss – it’s kinda the job requirement.”

            Quorra grins and nods before she gets up, too.

*  *  *  *  *

            { “We’ve got at least two hours before you have to go anywhere,” Flynn says – almost whines. “What’re you really up to?”

            “Tron shares his dad’s bent toward pessimism – dramatic pessimism, at that,” Lora says, before ducking into his car and settling into her seat. He follows her in. “The only cure I’ve found for that level of bald-faced truth-telling is to unleash full-on Flynn-ish optimism on him – something your kids can’t do if they’re busy running interference with you.”

            “But he’s dangerous – and they practically worship him –”

            “They’re adults now, Flynn,” she tells him. “Sam’s been to war; Quorra was _born_ into it. They can handle themselves – and if one slips up, the other’ll catch ‘im.”

            “But –”

            “No buts. You’re driving.”}

*  *  *  *  *

            After eating ( _Note to self: tired Programs + caffeine = an almost-scary drunk/high combination._ ), they make a detour to the hospital to deliver some food to Roy, who looks almost as tired as Tron when he steps out of the room.

            “Hey,” he says, blinking blearily when he recognizes Tron. “They added an oxygen mask early this morning. Hasn’t had any more seizures since yesterday afternoon, but he’ll twitch occasionally and let out one of those evil little chuckles you’ve mentioned.” He pulls off his glasses and rubs at a blood-shot eye. “’s that Mandella’s I’m smelling?”

            Sam lifts the bag and Q ushers Roy away to the waiting room chairs so he can eat in a slightly less stressful setting. He waits a bit, then gestures to the door. “You need a minute?”

            “No reason you can’t be there too,” Tron says, though he still doesn’t move.

            “Okay,” Sam breathes, then pushes through the door to hold it open.

            Tron’s breath hitches. Then a muscle bulges along his jaw as he grits his teeth and strides into a room filled with soft beeps and gasps from the machines lining Alan’s bedside. He comes to a stop at a corner of the bed and clasps a blanket-clad foot. “‘Evil little chuckle’?” he asks through an obviously-tight throat once the door slips closed.

            Sam winces, then says, “Something’s spoken through him a couple times. Mostly nonsensical mutterings, from what we can tell – it doesn’t sound like his voice, though.”

            “Mostly.”

            Sam chews his lip, then shrugs. “I was being stupid. He started having another seizure Saturday night. I tried telling it off, and it responded. It’s been laughing at us off and on ever since.”

            Tron’s hum of acknowledgement comes out like a growl, a glow rising in his eyes as he releases the foot and rounds the bed. Sam’s heart briefly clenches, sudden panic and solid trust warring within as Tron somehow squeezes past the bedrail and sundry tubes and wires to settle along Alan’s side, half-curling around his sleeping head. The arm not doubling as a pillow reaches for Alan’s heart, its fingers tapping lightly on his chest.

            Alan’s heart monitor trips and steadies out again; after a pause and sigh, Tron’s eyes close, and he keeps tapping.

            Something about it reminds Sam of how Sonya types one-handed sometimes, when the codes are buzzing too fast through her head to hit pause, but she still needs a gulp of coffee. _Are you coding?_ he wonders, his breath catching.

            Silence reigns for the next several minutes, the clicks and bleeps from the various machines turning into white noise in Sam’s brain as he watches Tron’s dancing fingers. He dares to sit in the chair everyone’s using to stand guard, only to jump up again when a nurse walks in seconds later.

            “His son just got into town – we’re just here long enough for Roy to eat –”

            “Stand down, Sir,” the nurse says, holding a hand out as white teeth flash against his dark skin, his eyes shining with a soft amusement. “Long’s he’s not messing with our equipment, I’m not against physical contact.” His steps are almost silent as he walks in. He checks connections and readouts, changes an IV bag, and is skimming through Alan’s chart when he says, “He’s a rare one, isn’t he.”

            “What do you mean?” Sam asks.

            “Most of our patients only have one or two family members trading off vigil duty, if they’re really lucky. You lot are a big enough crowd that he hasn’t been alone longer than the time we give him his sponge bath. And even then, you’re just outside the door.” He shakes his head. “And to have two of you be the coleaders of a Fortune 500 company? Mr. Bradley must be a big deal to you.”

            “He’s the guy who created Tron.” He almost points, but stops himself. “– the security program, not the game.”

            The nurse breathes a whistle. “A true unsung hero.”

            Then two things happen at once: the door swings open again, letting Roy and Quorra back in, and Alan’s breathing hitches. His eyes flutter open, a hand reaching up to clutch at Tron’s as Tron goes stiff, glowing eyes opening slightly. Alan performs a short stutter-tapping against the back of Tron’s hand while looking up at his son.

            Q gasps, a hand flying over her mouth as tears well up in her eyes.

            Alan’s hand goes limp, his eyes closing again. Tron somehow curls even closer and chokes out a quiet, “I’m here, Dad” into Alan’s hair, a couple electric tears escaping into it.

            “May not be much longer, now,” the nurse whispers, hooking Alan’s chart back to the foot of the bed. “Make sure he’s off the bed in an hour and a half – Padgett’s a real stickler for rules, and could ban him if she catches him.”

            “Thank you, sir,” Sam somehow manages to say.

            “Thank you.”

*  *  *  *  *

_He wanders through endless empty corridors – not lost, but with no sense of what he’s looking for. The light stutters periodically, then steadies out again. Sometimes he thinks he hears engines rumbling; feels the surfaces around him tremble ever-so-slightly, only the sensation disappears – the sound dissolving into distant thunder – every time he tries to focus on it. Voices catch at his ears, always just beyond his reach to understand. He doesn’t chase them._

_A dark space on one wall keeps pulling his gaze, even as his feet turn away again and again. He circles around, coming a little closer every time, until he’s face-to-face with the writhing mass._

_The voices get stronger as he presses his hands to the wall, surrounding him with anger, fear, and doubt that he refuses to consider, let alone accept. Light pools under his palms, and he sighs, letting the weariness plaguing him win for a moment as he adds his forehead to the pressure and closes his eyes._

_This is where he’s needed; where he’s meant to be._

_The voices batter at him, trying to rip him away and destroying themselves in the process – **“Hey, Alan?”** a quiet one whispers out of the wall. **“D’you think, maybe . . . Flynn was going crazy, and we didn’t catch it?”** _

_A smile pulls at his mouth, remembering his father’s answer: “ **‘You don’t think we’re real, Ram?’** ” – and stumbles into an all-too-familiar room as the wall gives way._

_The darkness shrieks behind him, bleeding its way in before he blasts it back out and the doorway seals again, its edges cracking under the strain. He huffs to himself, half-wondering if the adrenaline spike was necessary, before he turns back to face the throne room again._

_He doesn’t want to be here – if he never saw the entire damn ship again, it would still be way too soon, as far as he’s concerned. But the call he was feeling outside has only gotten stronger in here, so he takes a breath and moves further in._

_Everything’s the same, from the nearby consoles to the empty chair ahead –_

_– To the body in between, sprawled ragdoll-style and facing a wall._

_He’s kneeling next to it an instant later, putting a hand to its shoulder. The body tenses –_

_“ **I’m here, Dad** ,” he says, “I’m here.”_

_The body relaxes. Alan pings a tentative **S . . . O . . . N** in greeting. Tron taps back an affirmative, then molds himself to his father’s back to better hide the burn in his eyes._

_They lay still and quiet for a time, a soft beeping the only thing to break the silence. Then Alan twitches and breathes deep. “Not gonna last much longer,” he says in a rough, weary rush._

_Tron’s jaw clenches. He pulls Alan closer. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his circuitry brightening to near-blinding levels as the darkness closes in._

*  *  *  *  *

            Tron wakes on his own a little over an hour later. Glow still fading from his eyes, he kisses Alan’s forehead and murmurs something that makes Alan’s mouth curl up (Sam stiffens, half-expecting another round of laughter), then slithers off the bed like he’d slipped on.

            The weight of death seems to follow him down, leaving Alan a little brighter . . . . Sam’s not sure if that’s a good sign. He heaves a sigh, heavy shoulders straightening as he pulls his hand from Alan’s blanketed knee. “Gotta get back to work.”

            “Where to?” Sam asks, standing as well.

            “Roy needs a lift home,” Quorra says from her spot against the wall next to the doorway, killing their forward motion. “And somebody’s gotta keep watch –”

            “I’ve got him,” a new voice says, the door clicking closed as Flynn steps in. He locks eyes with Tron, and Sam watches them share a moment of ESP. “Don’t break my company,” he says, an understanding in his gaze.

            The weariness in Tron’s face clears, then he nods and marches out. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes darting between all the other players in the room before he scrambles to catch up with the wayward Program.

            He doesn’t get a chance to ask.

*  *  *  *  *

_His phone buzzes, jolting him upright in a classroom full of dead-eyed-from-exhaustion-and-boredom classmates. Thankfully the prof is facing his blackboard and so fully engrossed in whatever philosophical bullshit he’s yammering that the sudden sound and movement don’t break his focus. A couple bleary glances flick his way from other students, but no one has the energy to turn him in over having his cell on._

_He forces himself to wait a few minutes anyway, letting the ennui resettle again before pulling out his phone to see who texted him – and his breath catches._

_Claire: Holy shit! Need to talk to you ASAP_

_He glances around needlessly before replying,_ _In class rn. Whereve you been?!_

_Barely a minute passes before she answers,_ _Sry. Busy. USE A LANDLINE_

_“Gee, thanks for the clarification,” he mutters to himself, and puts his phone away again. It figures Claire would disappear for a couple weeks, then reappear on the one day he’s stuffed full with classes he can’t afford to skip, demanding his immediate attention._

_Maybe if he finishes his ethics test early, he’ll have time to call her . . . **if** he can find a landline quickly enough (that part’s really concerning – why a **landline**? Is it a **Matrix** joke?)._

_He shakes his head and wiggles back into a slouch; tries to refocus on his stupid school shit_ _again. He’ll find out when he gets there. Claire and her newest drama will just have to wait ‘til then._

*  *  *  *  *

            After a brief talk with Dad that quickly devolves into their old-couple-bickering mode, Quorra pulls Roy away with the enticement of a ride home . . . only to roll to a pause while waiting for the traffic outside the parking garage to part.

            “Roy,” she says, hesitant, “would you be open to a slight detour?”

            Roy sighs like he expected it. “How long will this ‘slight detour’ take?”

            A car honks behind them, making them jump. She turns into the break before not-answering, “I wanna go to the arcade. See the Grid for myself.”

            Roy stares at her for a good minute while she drives. She’s sure his own Papa Bear side will refuse by the time he says, “Yeah, okay. Prob’ly the safest place for you to try out your System-legs again . . . and also verify Tron is who he says he is, this time.”

            She breathes out relief and takes the next right. They don’t speak again until they’re heading into the basement almost forty-five minutes later.

            “Are you going by laser, or the usual way?”

            “The usual,” she decides after a half-second’s thought. “That way, I can leave the second things turn hinky, rather than having to dodge trouble while trying to reach the Portal.”

            Roy nods. “How long should I give you – two minutes? twenty?”

            “Prob’ly not that long . . . . Maybe poke me around the five minute mark? That should give me enough time to get a feel for a few things, at least.” She slips between the CPU and wall, takes a deep breath, and plunges in.

            {He waits a few seconds to make sure she’s fully in, then pokes at the embedded monitor, waking it. He’s a little surprised to see the countdown clock running, but the amount of time left makes him huff a laugh. _Couldn’t’ve planned it better myself_ , he thinks before stepping away again.}

_Welcome, Daughter_ , a voice whispers as she integrates standing next to a man-made energy pool. She blinks and looks around, but sees no one. Another voice murmurs something behind her, making her start to turn – then jump and stifle a yelp, when she sees a pair of gridbugs observing her from the mountain’s slope.

            Blue-white and golden heads cock curiously at her, but neither moves to attack. After a breathless moment, the gold one shuffles back and half-climbs over the blue to continue its way up; the blue eventually follows . . . . Strange, to see colored gridbugs. _Wonder what the point of that is?_

            The second voice murmurs again, a Disk activating a second later. She turns further, and it takes her a couple blinks to look past the static flecks of light to the Programs in the room beyond. She raises her hands and walks through the divide. “Hi. Sorry to disturb you – I just popped in to test something. My name’s –”

            “Quorra,” Clu breathes as he stands – then hunches into himself like he expects to get hit, even shuffles a few steps back to avoid it.

            Quorra freezes instead. “Hello, big brother,” she breathes back, her fingers curling in and her hands lowering as she takes him in. Even though she knows he’s physically identical to her best friend, this Clu couldn’t look less like him –

            Then Clu makes a face. “Sam Flynn called me _little_ brother,” he complains. “Yet he calls _you_ big sister. How does that work?”

            Amusement makes her bite back a smile for a second, then she shrugs. “Sam n I accidently made a couple Programs the first time he was here twenty years ago. Ours is just a crazy family – you’re better off not trying to make sense of it unless you need a headache.”

            The Program between them shifts his weight, his Disk deactivating in a strangely tentative manner. “Mother,” he greets, yanking Quorra’s gaze to him.

            She blinks again. Then grins. “ _Jet!_ ” She reaches out for a hug, and has to go on tiptoe when he accepts and reciprocates it.

            “Sam mentioned you were shorter than him. I didn’t think he meant it so literally,” he says, releasing her.

            “Yeah, yeah, yuk it up,” she says, rolling her eyes and playfully smacking his chest. “Should’ve known Sam-I-Am would take that dig at me – How’s Beck and everyone? – Tron tells me Yori’s back to being a good guy again. – What even _is_ this place? – Are you okay with gridbugs now, too –”

            “Do you ever stop to breathe?” Clu interjects.

            She takes an exaggerated breath just to blow a raspberry at him; he almost smiles back. It gives Jet a chance to process her questions and wind down from his budding panic mode, which was probably Clu’s intent.

            “This is the User’s bedroom in the command center – that’s probably why you rezzed here, instead of the Arcade lake. Beck’s training Sam’s new Program Steev, since I lost my temper with the kid last week. Yori, Bug, and his brothers have mostly finished killing off what’s left of the MCP. We’ll need Tron’s clearance to be sure. How is your recovery coming? Tron mentioned his Originator had hurt you –”

            Quorra can’t help flinching, which cuts Jet off. They stand awkwardly for a minute, no one sure what to say next.

            “Perhaps a trip to the training ground would be beneficial? I imagine Beck and Steev have drawn a crowd by now,” Clu shyly suggests.

            “Can you handle a crowd?” Jet asks.

            Clu’s arms cross. “I didn’t say I was going –”

            “But of course you are!” Quorra says, passing Jet and hooking an arm through the crook of an elbow. “I’ve been so out-of-sorts I might not recognize a dodge from a parry, let alone what kind of attacks they’re using –”

            “One: you don’t need that kind of vocabulary to follow a fight; and two: you’re smart enough to know it,” Clu counters, letting her drag him to the door.

            “Aw, no mansplaining for poor widdle me?” she pouts, batting her eyelashes at him.

            Jet makes a squashed-laughter kind of noise, but he’s following them when Quorra turns to look, his eyes sparkling with mirth. She raises an eyebrow at him. He flashes a grin and says nothing.

            Travelling there’s pretty quick, once Clu cajoles them into using a lightrunner instead of trying to dig up a lightcycle baton for Quorra to use. Jet leads them on a thirty-minute tour past multiple packs of colorful gridbugs clearing land of rocks and debris to a natural amphitheater where a crowd has indeed gathered to watch a couple Programs fight. While she’s pretty sure the one with the giant Disk is Steev, they don’t get close enough for her to be sure it’s Beck he’s fighting before her view gets cut off by the amphitheater’s slope . . . and they keep going.

“Wait – is this not the training ground?”

            “It is,” Jet says, barreling down at a wall that lifts just as Quorra squeaks and reaches to jerk the wheel away from him. He smirks and she tries to pretend she hadn’t been freaking out. “We’re going to the VIP booth.”

            The crowd shouts as they step out of the lightrunner a couple minutes later, cheering and jeering in equal measure at whatever’s happened below. Clu scoops up his baton and lingers, shuffling his feet like he doesn’t know what to do next as Jet heads to another fleck-strewn window-wall thing that’s almost opaque.

            “C’mon,” she says, grabbing his arm again. “I’m definitely needing backup on this one.”

            “I’m the _last_ Program you need for backup here,” Clu mutters back, but doesn’t try fighting her as she tugs him along.

            (It’s so _weird_ , to see this face so quiet, hesitant, and almost reclusive. If she didn’t have Tron’s conjecture from earlier and her own friend’s rare quiet moments to go on, she’d think he’s possessed or at least under extreme bullying . . . even with that, though, she feels like she’s missing something.)

            “What’s the score?” Jet asks as they follow him through the wall of lights.

            “Kid’s improving, but nowhere near fast enough,” a familiar voice says, the silhouette of curly hair bouncing side-to-side in the negative before its body somehow slouches further on the ridiculously low-slung couch. A green-lit Punk/Goth Program sitting sideways on the couch turns to greet Jet, only to go still on seeing Quorra and Clu, his brows pinching and smile fading. “Beck’s even getting sloppy just to give the kid a fighting chance, and Steev only sees it about half the time – and three-quarters of _that_ time, he responds wrong. At this rate, he _might_ be able to hold his own against Yori –”

            A green-circuited female whips around from the opposite window. “Are you saying I can’t fi- – oh. Hello.”

            A pause. Then the curly-haired Program pushes himself vertical enough to look at Quorra upside-down. “Who’re you?”

            “RAM!” Yori and the Punk/Goth yell, making Ram, Quorra, and Clu flinch slightly before Yori continues, “I _know_ you have better manners than that –”

            “It’s still better than the last first time we met,” Quorra says, disengaging from Clu to pull a lock of Ram’s hair just to make it bounce. “Much friendlier than, ‘Program, identify’ – though that might also be ‘cause I’m not ten and running for my life anymore.”

            “Quorra.” Ram blinks – then the crowd bellows again, jerking their attention back into the arena.

            “HA!” Yori crows and points. “I had a feeling Steev was playing a long game – look, now he’s gonna wipe the floor with Beck and – oh. Damnit, quit _peacocking_!” She huffs and settles again as the crowd offer their own booing and mockery to her frustrated distress; the Punk/Goth fails to stifle a smile as he watches her fondly.

            Quorra edges closer to him while the others fall back into the game, bickering all the while. Even Clu edges closer to the group. “Still loves the underdogs, doesn’t she,” she says, leaning down and gesturing toward Yori.

            The Punk’s smile grows. “Always, thank God,” he agrees, then turns to her. “I’m Jarrex, by the way.” He offers a hand.

            “Quorra. . . . You’re the one who saved Alan at the lightcycle Arena,” she says, taking it.

            “ _Wow_ , that was a long time ago – I take it you’ve seen the video of what happened after?”

            Quorra snorts. “ _Seen_ it – I was the only one who believed Tron was still alive and kicking ‘til Sam pointed him out –”

            “And I’ve still got the bruise to show for it – ow!” Ram yelps.

            “Oh, you poor baby,” Yori taunts, then slaps his arm again.

            “Jar-rex! Tell your mate to quit beating me up.”

            “Oh, so she can fight, now,” Jarrex asks, lazily raising an eyebrow.

            “Never said she couldn’t,” Ram pouts, slouching back into the couch again.

            Yori mouths an _I love you_ across the way; Quorra glances down in time to see Jarrex grin and mouth _I know_ back.

            Quorra might be a little in love herself, by this point –

            “Why am I seeing a ball of fluff shaking iridescent tailfeathers at another bird?” Clu asks suddenly, his head cocked like looking at things sideways will make them make better sense. Quorra looks back to the field, where Steev’s performing a Jackie Chan level move that Beck barely even has to lean away from to totally unravel – to the crowd’s great amusement.

            She chokes on a laugh as well. “That, my friend, is Flynn Flirtation 101: take the most ridiculous thing you can do, and crank it to about eleventy-billion to keep their attention on you. The real question is, who’s he trying to impress?”

            “That . . . makes an alarming amount of sense,” someone murmurs as they process the question. She follows their gazes to Jet a moment later, who’s so busy scowling at the arena that he’s apparently lost track of the conversation until all eyes are on him.

            “What?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many _more_ POVs and 'cutting room floor' events happening by my present place in Chapter 13 that I could really use an opinion on how much juggling is required - are y'all getting confused? bored? What are your predictions at this point?


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting 30-some-odd years in the making . . . and also a bit of drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the next-to-last chapter of Regeneration Part 1: Reconcile. I'm in midst of Part 2 (Recompile), and it's still incredibly slow going. My creative processes have ground to a near-halt, so I may have to resort to the every-other-week schedule again soon . . . after Chapter 7 is posted next week. 
> 
> I don't want to threaten y'all with a hiatus, but RL may force it whether I want to or not.

**Chapter 6**

            He can’t say he’s positive, with his Ducati purring under them, but Sam’s pretty sure Tron’s growling the entire trip back to Encom. He keeps glancing at whatever part of Tron he can see, half-expecting to find red circuitry flashing at him even though he knows it doesn’t exist out here.

            They don’t speak as Tron herds him through the parking lot and lobby (the briefest glance, and Leon joins them at the elevators without question or fussing at them to sign in first). The elevator stops at a couple floors on their way up, startled employees taking a step back at the deadly air inside and deciding to wait for the next round; Tron’s growl spikes a notch louder when the opening to their floor reveals Eddie Dillinger, whose eyes go wide as he backs up and tries to blend into the nearest wall when they step out. (Part of Sam wants to laugh; the rest of him knows better than to risk drawing the predator’s attention any further his way.)

            Tron brushes past them on his way to Dad’s desk, the hair on Sam’s arm standing to electric attention at the static-y rage rolling off the Program. His breath catches audibly, but Tron doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes already glowing as he sits in Dad’s chair again and reaches for the desk. He goes still and the tension eases, letting Sam breathe again.

            “Sir,” Leon sighs out a moment later. “What the _hell_ . . .?”

            “Leon, meet Tron.” Sam gestures at the desk, feeling a little like he needs to apologize. “He’s . . . a little pissy right now.”

            “ . . . _The_ Tron?”

            Sam bites his lip. “Yep.”

            “ _Shit_.”

            Sam’s mouth quirks with sympathy, then he glances to the camera above, hoping someone in-System is watching and aware of what’s going on.

*  *  *  *  *

            He barely restrains himself from rezzing _inside_ the cell, one last shot of dimming logic warning him not to make it more difficult for anyone to recognize which Tron is which.

            The figure inside sits up instantly, sensing the threat, then smirks and slouches lazily against the wall when he recognizes Tron.

            “Finally deigning to grace me with your presence? To what do I owe this honor,” Senior asks, crossing his arms.

            “Our father’s dying,” Tron says bluntly, stepping closer to the barrier, “because of what _you_ did to him – what were you _thinking_?”

            Senior’s breath catches, but he doesn’t stall out. He even dares to shrug. “You kept the antivirus codes to yourself, so I uploaded them to him while he was under attack –”

            “What you did was destroy what little immunity he had left with good-as- _shit_ codes the MCP could tap-dance through wearing a blindfold back in ‘87. **_What were you thinking!_** ”

            Senior surges up from his seat, his blue circuitry glaring almost as brightly as his gaze when he mirrors Tron across the barrier. “You don’t know who you’re talking to, _Boy_ –”

            “Don’t I?” Red flickers through his vision, and he somehow plunges into the swirling, howling void that makes up his Originator. “ . . . You _bastard_.” He feels more than sees Senior bare a shark-like grin and lean closer into a barrier that _has_ to be sparking from his proximity by now –

            “TRON!” a new voice shouts, yanking their locked gazes apart. “Step outside, please,” Steev says.

            “In a min- –”

            “ _Now_ , Sir.” Steev scowls, shifting to provide a clear exit while keeping the doorway open.

            Tron forces himself to bite his tongue and take the hint, pulling away and striding out without looking back at the mocking sneer undoubtedly gracing Senior’s face. He closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath –

            “You need to calm down.”

            Something screeches within, a new rage boiling over –

            “You’re destabilizing the structure and giving him the perfect opportunity to study and mimic you – Calm. The Fuck. _Down_ ,” Steev demands, bracing himself against a flickering wall as the shaking resumes –

            Tron blinks. The roar in his ears fades and the trembling building steadies out again with only a few bits of wall crumbling under the barrage. He tries for that deep breath again, unnerved at how dangerous he’s –

            _“Gridbugs!”_ someone yells through the intercom’s squeal. _“A whole damn nest just erupted a half-click away. All hands on deck!”_ The intercom squeals again, making them both wince.

            They barely share a glance before Steev races off. A bubble of fear develops in Tron’s chest, slowly displacing his rage as he follows Steev out to the fight. Minutes later he’s moving blindly from one shattering bug to the next, mind spinning almost too fast to take note of the team converging around them, working together like they were made to fight.

            _Danger . . . Threat . . . Risk . . . PROTECT_ become a drumbeat in his head until he can’t hear anything else.

*  *  *  *  *

            Tron looks sick, though he moves smoothly like he’s working through a routine. His face is blank, a mask of stone indicating that his mind is very-definitely elsewhere – and not in a good place. There’s a paleness to the Program’s features that makes Steev worried he’ll collapse on them at the worst possible moment. He tries to stay close and observe, but the fight keeps drawing Tron further and further away from the group as a whole . . . Almost like the MCP’s trying to steal Tron away and absorb him into itself. [To Tron!], he pings to the others, and knows he’s gotten some of it right when a frustrated growl rolls through the ground under their feet.

            They develop a kind of bird-in-flight motion, with Steev, Tron, and Hamaley in the center/body section occasionally spearheading forward, then letting their “wings” circle back up and around them again before another surge of momentum propels them out again for another cycle. It proves amazingly effective, and a nest that would normally take most of a millicycle, extreme damage, and multiple heavy losses to contain and destroy is down to its last few drones in under an hour –

            “Tron! Watch i- –”

            Tron snatches his Disk from the air and turns, eyes glowing, to reach for the nest Queen rising to attack him –

            The world freezes, the moment suspended . . . then cracks form in the bug’s structure, radiating from Tron’s hand on its chest. The ground trembles under their feet, making everyone shy away a couple steps.

            The bug’s body explodes, shell disintegrating before it hits anyone, only to reveal a slightly smaller blue-white creature in its place. The ground tremors get stronger, portions cracking open as Tron and the creature fall, now clinging to each other.

            Steev tenses as a howl echoes around them, getting stronger before it funnels itself into the pair, then it blasts out, knocking everyone to their backs.

            Steev and Hamaley are the first to recover in spite of their proximity, scrambling up onto their elbows in time to see the bug-creature heave a sigh and dissolve into the ground, newly cleaned circuitry brightening as the energy disperses. He feels more than sees Hamaley shoot him a near-manic grin across the way that he can’t convince himself to reciprocate –

            “Senior’s so entrenched in the System that he’s found a way to use gridbugs to spy on you,” Tron says, lifting his head like it’s added twenty pounds of weight. “Were you aware of that?” The glow’s still fading as he blinks, slowly focusing on Steev as he waits for an answer.

            Steev’s mouth smacks drily a couple times. Then he swallows and finds his voice. “Dad and I’ve suspected a spy was in our ranks, but haven’t found a way to root it out yet,” he says, trying not to glance at the others and wishing Tron could’ve waited to ask him about it in private. “Is he only using gridbugs?”

            Tron’s eyes close again, a weariness in his features. “He can hack into other Programs . . . use them for bit operations or corrupt them fully, if he finds them useful enough.” He blanches; shivers and looks away, a panicky wildness developing in his darting eyes. “Just like the MCP.” He swallows, then surges onto his feet and away from the group. “I need to go home.”

            He’s gone before anyone can question or protest.

*  *  *  *  *

            “ _Hey, Q_ ,” a voice murmurs into the emptied arena, “ _Can I come in?_ ”

            She glances to the others more out of habit than asking for their permission, feeling a grin grow at the awe on Ram’s face. **“Sure, Roy. Come on in, the water’s fine.”**

            “Water . . .” she hears Jarrex breathe. He turns away –

            “I better go monitor the Portal, then,” Yori says, reaching to peck a kiss on Jarrex’s cheek before heading out; he doesn’t seem to notice.

            “What do I do?” Ram breathes, yanking Quorra’s curious attention to him. He turns wide eyes to Clu. “I’ve never met my Creator. What do I _do?_ ”

            Clu chews his lip – trying not to laugh, Quorra’s sure of it – and crosses his arms casually. “Saying ‘Hello’ ‘s prob’ly a pretty good start –”

            “Oh, you’re no help –”

            “I don’t need to tell you Flynn is a _very different_ kind of User,” Clu protests, his arms flying out again. “And Tron met Alan1 under horrible circumstances” – the ground starts to tremble under their feet – “how could I _possibly_ know how to treat a User the first time they –”

            A hand clamps around her arm. “Tell him **_to take a deep breath_**!” Jarrex says, darting away.

            “Wha- Jarrex –?” Ram asks.

            “Sam Flynn came to us wet.”

            “Shit, the _lake_!” Clu tosses her a baton; she catches it without thinking as he goes the other way. “Go with them, I’ll follow with the ‘runner.”

            Ram and Jarrex are already breaking through the arena window; Quorra scrambles to follow before their lightjets get too far ahead. _What the hell?_ she wonders as she catches up with them in the air. She finds the intercom button.

            “I don’t get it,” she says. “It’s not like Roy doesn’t know how to swim – his first job was as a lifeguard –”

            “In a place where you expect water to be, no doubt,” Jarrex interjects. “Does he have any reason to know the Arcade has become a lake?”

            “Wha- When did that happen?”

            “When Alan first came to us – he destroyed and inverted the area around the Arcade so no one could follow our trail,” Ram tells her. “Remember?”

            “Was she there when Alan1 told you –”

            (She flashes to one of the memories Tron showed them at Encom last week: a pair of hands raising a Disk to a stormy sky –)

            The Portal’s light bursts open with a roar, it’s beacon gleaming like a full moon in the night sky.

            _Shit._ “How long does it take a User to integrate here?”

            “Not long enough,” Clu mutters darkly from the pinprick of light racing them below. “Let’s hope Jarrex’s warning got to him in time.”

*  *  *  *  *

            **_“– to take a deep breath!”_** a male voice shouts out of Quorra, making him jump and gasp just as the laser fires – He inhales water and air at once, and he flails, panic racing through him. He wants to breathe, to cough, pressure surrounding him so _he can’t do anything_ –

            Gold and red streaks appear, forming masses he can’t comprehend that reach for him – He smacks and kicks at them as his vision dims – Something surges under his rear, propelling him upward (maybe?) and something else grabs hold of his arms and chest, continuing the momentum as he blacks out . . . .

. . .

            Burning liquid pours from his nose and mouth. He gasps; a gurgling in his chest; then more liquid comes out. A hand thumps his back, worried voices babbling over him as he coughs and coughs and coughs out the last of it. He’s allowed to roll onto his back when nothing else comes up. He feels something pull his glasses away and wipe his face; a pair of hands clasp one of his.

            Roy’s eyes peel open to his blurry reflection. “Aren’t you . . . handsome devil,” he gasps at it, and passes out again.

. . .

            He wakes in that sticky no-man’s-land between wet and dry, with something purring and pulsing light over his chest. The ocean laps at his heels, reminding him he’d almost drowned . . .

            “I think you’ve insulted him,” an unknown voice murmurs next to him. Roy turns his waterlogged head toward a kid a few years younger than Sam, who’s wearing an underlit-green suit like what _TRON_ cosplayers wear at conven- –

            _I’m on the **GRID**_ jerks him upright, tumbling the glowing-purring beetle-thing off his chest. He wobbles, his inner ear struggling to compensate for the shift in gravity while the beetle scrambles around in his lap and half-props itself against his chest to wave antennae and forelegs angrily at him –

            “Don’t think he can hear you, Bug,” the kid says mildly. He shifts his weight and pats his open thigh. The beetle (bug?) huffs a breath and climbs over to settle down again. “Systems check,” the kid says, propping one hand in the glittery black sand-substance they’re sitting in before looking him over. “Do you know where you are?”

            Roy nods, then immediately regrets it. “The Grid,” he says as the world swishes around him.

            “Do you know what I am?”

            Roy squints at him, trying to discern any familiar features. “No one I know, so you must be a program.” The kid nods, starts to ask –

            “Who did I insult?”

            The kid blinks at him. “You don’t know?”

            “Obviously not –” his reflection and what he said to it flashes through his mind. “– How’s that an insult?”

            “We had to fight off our own version of evil incarnate a short time ago,” a new voice says. Roy hazards turning enough to see the slightly-older blond man standing behind them, glowing Frisbee – no, wait, light-disk – in hand. “Most of us didn’t have a choice in getting subsumed –”

            “That’s enough, Jet –” his own voice says from –

            “‘ _Handsome_ devil’ fits me better, anyway,” Flynn’s voice pipes up from even further away. Roy rolls onto his knees to face the group, his jaw dropping as an almost-thirty-years-younger Flynn continues, “considering I was the face of the bastard’s organization.” Quorra’s elbow jerks into not-Flynn’s side, but he’s already finished – until he blinks, a new subject rolling into his head. An eyebrow cocks up. “You believe in us now, Ram?” he asks Roy, staring him down from the hood of the strange car he’s sitting on, sounding unnervingly like Sam had last week when Tro- –

            “What about us . . . ?” The only person – no, program – not already looking his way turns, and Roy’s breath catches.

“Hi, Ram.”

*  *  *  *  *

            Maybe two minutes pass between Tron going into Encom and coming out again, but the air around him can’t be more different. The rage he went in with has been so thoroughly replaced by fear that Sam almost wonders if Tron’s gotten himself possessed –

            “I need to go home,” Tron says, launching himself away from Dad’s desk and out the door, not waiting for anyone to follow him – Sam barely thinks to grab his helmet before racing to meet him at the elevators again.

            The elevator that (miraculously) opens is empty, and Tron hunkers into a corner in the back, shying away when Sam reaches for him. “I need to go home,” he mutters again.

            Sam exchanges bewildered glances with Leon, then leans around Leon’s bulk to mouth a _What the hell?_ at the camera.

            “You think Security would know, Sir?” Leon asks.

            “‘S not Security I’m asking,” Sam says, his phone buzzing before he finishes the sentence.

            Tron whimpers, curling further into himself as the elevator slows several floors down. _“Please.”_

            “ _Shi-it_ ,” Leon breathes and moves to stand at the center, where he pulls on his grumpiest, glariest scowl even though he’s sheet-white with panic.

            Tron whimpers again – and the elevator picks up to speed, not stopping until they reach the lobby.

            “You sure you don’t want a promotion or something?” Sam asks as the elevator settles. “I’m sure we can find –”

            “Shut up, Sir,” Leon says, his eyes closed. “I’m already way above my paygrade on this one.”

            Tron charges out the second the doors open, forcing Sam to chase him down again with only a rushed “Thank you!” half-shouted over his shoulder as he exits. He feels his phone buzz again as Tron comes to a stand-still at his bike. “You’re not going anywhere without this,” he says, holding out the helmet.

            Tron doesn’t respond; just trembles and stares sightlessly into a distance Sam can’t see.

            _‘Shit’ is right_ , he thinks, and jams the helmet over Tron’s head. Tron jerks awake at that, his hands jumping up to grab at Sam’s forearms – only to still and roll into fists before contact can be made.

            “I need to go home,” comes through the muffling visor, Tron’s arms lowering again.

            “The Grid?” Sam asks needlessly, his insides relaxing a little at the tiny nod he feels through the straps. _Still here, if only barely._

            Their ride from Encom to arcade couldn’t be more different from the one they had a week ago – cold like paranoia slices between them throughout the ride, Tron ridiculously careful about any physical contact. There’s no sense of peace or hope here – no parting in such sweet sorrow – as Tron somehow slips off the back and heads for the arcade doors while Sam eyes and ponders the SUV that looks like Quorra’s sitting in front –

            The _crack_ of his helmet hitting the ground breaks him away from the oddity just in time to see Tron walk through the unlocked door. Sam pauses in the front entry to check for damage – then propels forward again when he hears Tron grunt, the hinges of his game squealing slightly in protest as he pushes it out of the way.

            Sam’s still several steps short of the bottom of the basement stairs when a whine and a flash of light tells him Tron is gone. He freezes, breath catching. Then his phone buzzes a third – fifth? – time, and he walks the rest of the way in.

            It takes a couple passes through the room for him to see his sister wedged into the corner by the CPU. He presses two fingers to the crook of her elbow and murmurs, “Hey, sis. Something’s seriously scared the crap outta Tron. You might not want to be there anymore.” He pauses a couple seconds, waiting for a response, then pulls away and reaches for his phone, hoping to get some answers.

*  *  *  *  *

_Coming home is probably the dumbest, most selfish thing he could do, but he needs **Away** ; he needs **Safe**. . . . And the Grid will at least know how to protect herself, if the worst proves true._

_He’s diving off the platform a nanosecond after the light releases him, turning his lightjet an indigo so dark it might as well be black while rejecting and ignoring every thought-greeting-question bombarding his periphery. He can’t – **He can’t** – **HE CAN’T** –_

_Lightning flares; thunder rolls so deep the ground quakes as he lands on the balcony. He rushes into the room, knows he needs to find an anchor, something strong enough to pull him back –_

_the scent catches him – faint, but there. He breathes deep, wadding the cloth up around his face –_

_the sob catches him off-guard. He mindlessly wedges himself into the nonexistent corner behind him, Alan’s old coat somehow fanning out and over him, hiding him away from the world while the fear, the grief, the rage, the horror and pain overflow out and through him, fueling the storm._

            He howls and screams himself hoarse, the Grid eventually soothing him into exhausted, mindless sleep hours later.

 


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's going on with Tron? What's he panicking over?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may want to hold off on clicking the links until after you finish reading - one is to a comedy routine that'll wreak the somberness of the scene otherwise.

**Chapter 7**

_He wakes, and knows his son is gone. The roiling darkness cradles him resentfully, growling to hide the distant sound of Ram(Roy?)’s laughter._

_**The boys must’ve pulled another prank** , he thinks, smiling as he somehow finds the energy to shift into a slightly-more-comfortable position. His arm twinges in complaint as it becomes his pillow. Something makes him glance at his other hand – and his breath catches._

_Bits of code are scrawled over his palm and up into his fingers. It’s not much . . . but it’s a start._

_He sighs, eyes drooping closed again as he gets to work._

*  *  *  *  *

            A rumbling in the distance catches at her ears; Ram excuses himself from their city tour-cum-bar crawl shortly after. And with the increasingly hostile glances from other patrons, it doesn’t take long for Jet to make similar noises that draw Clu away, leaving them with Jarrex, Beck, and a very grumpy Steev.

            Hanging around Steev’s kinda hilarious, really. And also really awkward. Knowing her brother’s a Disney slut is one thing. Seeing his Program equivalent situated as Captain freakin’ America is something so over-the-top that she has trouble not snickering every time she looks at the kid . . . which is playing a part in his grumpiness, she’s sure.

            Beck’s eyes keep darting between them, like he can’t decide if he’d rather jump to the kid’s defense, or side with Quorra and rile him further. Jarrex just continues to observe and be amused by everything.

            The latest singer’s voice cracks, sounding like a scratch on a disc in the arcade jukebox. Quorra can’t help wincing as she lowers her drink, the energy in her glass sloshing out a few drops under the force. (Steev glares at her like she’s just insulted ~~Marvin~~ his puppy, too.) The song ends with a spattering of applause before she can comment, the singer cheerfully bouncing off the stage to approach them. Quorra tenses and exchanges a glance with Roy, wondering if trouble is coming –

            “Greetings, Uncles,” the new girl says, propping herself between Jarrex and Roy after kissing Beck’s temple. Roy’s eyebrows shoot up – “I take it Clu was starting to get a little antsy. Hello, Grandmother.”

            Quorra chokes and coughs. “Um – what?” she asks through the gasping. Roy makes a mini-explosion sound and covers his mouth, trying to suppress his laughter.

            “Uncle Ram, why’re you wearing Granpa’s glass- – you’re not Uncle Ram,” she interrupts herself, peering closer at Roy.

            “Maya,” Jarrex says, “meet your Granpa Roy. Ram was called away on City business just before you went up.”

            “Oh.” She doesn’t quite manage to hide her disappointment before perking up again. “Have you talked to Aunt Paige yet? She’s been looking for you,” she says, rounding the table and sitting between Quorra and Steev as Beck blanches and curls into himself, shutting down.

            “I’m sorry,” Quorra says, straightening in her seat to defend her little group. “Who are you? How are you connected to us?”

            “Quorra,” Jarrex answers, “meet Maya, Jet’s daugh- –”

            “You were off-key and pitchy – that’s why your voice cracked at the end,” Steev snaps, apparently feeling ignored.

            Quorra’s jaw drops as Maya’s head whips around. “Did I ask you?”

            Jarrex’s arm shoots out past Roy and grabs Quorra’s arm, his ping silencing her, [Wait. Let them bicker.]

            Quorra starts to argue, but Roy’s growing grin stops her as the pair forget their existence in the rising argument. “Much Ado About Nothing,” he murmurs, reaching out to pat her hand. “Your parents did this all the time, before they got their heads outta their asses. Is there popcorn? We’ll prob’ly be here awhile.”

            “You’ll have to Create it,” Jarrex says, grinning like he’s found more blackmail fodder. “And share. Alan could never get it right, for some reason.”

            “Damn.”

            They watch and wait through at least three more songs, the pair surely seconds away from an angry make-out session before a misplaced detail clicks in Quorra’s head: _He wasn’t flirting with Jet_ , “He was trying to impress her _Daddy_!”

            “And failing terribly at it,” Beck agrees, smirking –

            Thunder _BOOOM_ s, rattling everything in the bar and breaking everyone’s concentration.

            “ _Attention, Programs_ ,” Ram’s voice comes through as it fades. “ _Retreat to Safety Zones immediately. We’re in for a helluva storm._ ” [You too, Boys], pings in her ear. “ ** _All_** _Programs, retreat to Safety Zones_.”

            The building’s circuitry goes dead for a heartbeat, then the edges relight, flashing movement toward the bar’s elevators. Programs respond with anxious twitters and shuffling feet, their own group exchanging a glance before rising and fanning out to bring up the rear. A pair of helmeted Programs descend from the DJ booth as they reach the entryway, their heads tilting a question in-sync upon seeing Roy and Quorra –

            Someone yelps as another BOOM rings out, tensions rising and panic bubbling up as the mass of Programs ahead of them press a little closer to the elevator doors. (Without really stopping to think about it, Quorra’s eyes close as she connects with the Grid a _nd urges the elevators to move just a little faster –)_

_“ **Oh, Mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law** ,” Maya sings to herself._

_“ **Law-man has put an end to my runnin’ and I’m so far from my home** ,” Jarrex adds as Programs turn their way._

_A muscle bulges in Beck’s jaw, but his eyes close as he opens his mouth to join their harmony. “ **Oh, Mama, I can hear you a-crying, you’re so scared and all alone . .**.” Steev rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, refusing to join. “ **Hang-man is comin’ down from the gallows, and I don’t have very long . . .** ”_

_“Oh,”_ Quorra breathes, her eyes opening as the room calms –

            “ _The jig is up, the news is out, they’ve finally found me_ ,” someone pipes up from the crowd.

            “ _The Renegade who had it made, retrieved for a bounty_ . . .” another answers, and the leading trio goes silent to watch and listen.

            Roy snags Jarrex’s arm as the chorus ends and the first verse begins. “What’s this about?” he asks. “It ain’t exactly a lullaby.”

            “It’s the first music-with-words song most of the Grid’s ever heard,” Jarrex says from Quorra’s other side. “Sam Flynn introduced us to it while he was pretending to be our own masked crusader –” Thunder rolls again, this time carrying an element of something almost human that makes Steev hiss and pull away from their line towards one of the bar’s light-flecked windows. “It became something of a totem here, even before Tron used it while releasing everyone from the MCP –”

            A scream rips through the air, sending Quorra and at least another dozen Isos to their knees. “Oh, honey,” she gasps, then sobs, blindly wrapping her arms around herself like she’s trying to hug someone as sickness-fear-horror-grief rolls through her. “Honey, no. No, no, no . . .”

            She feels more than hears Steev growl a, “ _Oh **hell** no_,” and take a running dive off the extended balcony.

            “STEVEN!” Roy shouts, but Steev’s lightjet rises into flight, already too far away to hear him.

*  *  *  *  *

            { _Programs caught nearly-unaware by the deluge are given a terrifying and awesome gift: the chance to witness their home come to life in ways they can barely recognize from games last played two decades ago. . ._

_Gridbugs shudder and go still while the rain falls, some growing while others shrink. Many develop pincers and stripes; others spots and teeth._

_Some even grow wings. Or fur._

_Strange shapes burst from the ground as energy flows and pools in the flood. New colors and shades-of-colors bloom in the darkness –_

_The best part, though, might be that brief moment when a bright light breaks through the clouds above and makes everything radiant with color . . . .}_

*  *  *  *  *

            He knows this pain; feels the screams for help buried in the slowly-fading storm. He can’t _not_ follow it. And it’s not in him to ignore it, not so soon after getting freed from Hell himself. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to pull up whoever’s stumbled into that pit, but he’s not going to leave them alone in it. He can’t.

            If nothing else, twenty years’ experience have taught him that being alone with it only buries you deeper.

            He follows the trail to the User’s quarters as the storm finally dissipates, to the Program who’s droopy gaze drifts between the fire and his Disks as he sits, still numb with exhaustion. He wants to be surprised, but he’s kinda expected it, after the things Quorra’s told him. “Hey, Tron. What you thinkin’ about?” he greets casually, trying to emulate his own twin as he props his arm along the other chair . . . and waits.

            “I tore Jarvis apart, like the MCP did to your Originator,” Tron finally says, voice ragged as he lays his Disks in his lap to face the fire again. “I forced you into a choice, just like the MCP did. And Quorra . . .” His jaw tenses, his dull eyes closing. He shakes his head. “Am I really any different from it?”

            _“Yes.”_

            Tron flinches, jerking out of his daze at the snarl. Clu takes a deep breath and tries to de-claw his hand from the chair so he can round it and sit down; his knuckles ache when he succeeds. “I can’t speak for Quorra or my Originator’s experience, obviously,” he begins as he settles into the chair, “but as I understand it, you found and destroyed the source code for the Grid’s biggest threat, which is part of your programming.” Tron’s head bows, his mouth pinching like he’s not entirely happy with that answer. Clu continues, “One could argue that you forced my original code on me, but you left it partially locked so I could decide –”

            “To either accept the code, or die a potentially slow, agonizing death,” Tron interrupts. “Not exactly a choice.”

            _[‘So my choices are Or Death?’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZVjKlBCvhg)_ a comedian’s voice counters in his head, almost making him snort out loud. _Not the time._ He chews it back and waves a hand in front of himself, trying to wipe away the thought. “Still a choice – there was nothing keeping you from just derezzing me and using Other Me’s code to create a third . . . me.” His eyes almost cross trying to follow the thought, a headache threatening. “Guy practically worships you already. Wouldn’t’ve taken you much at all to . . .”

            Tron’s nose wrinkles in dislike in the silence, and he’s relieved to drop the thought-string.

            “Besides, the MCP has no sense of humor,” he says, making Tron’s mouth twitch. He straightens his posture and crosses his legs, adopting an English accent and the snobbiest air he can. “And it is _far_ too perfect to stop and think about silly little things like self-reflection or second thoughts.” Tron huffs a soft laugh, life teasing back into him as tension eases from his shoulders. Clu looks him over again as he drops the attitude; hesitates in adding, “On the surface, you and the MCP might share a very, _very_ thin line in places. Scratch the surface, and you’re like the MCP like” – he blanks, scrambles for a good comparison for a nanosecond – “a goldfish is like a butterfly.” He pauses, blinking as he double-checks himself, then shakes his head. “Actually the MCP’s the goldfish, the greedy little bastards.”

            He gets a good snort out of that one, but the laughter still dies too soon. Then a weight shifts in the doorway behind Clu before he can find a way to keep it going.

            “Sir?” Steev calls out.

            Clu tries and fails to bite back a sigh, eyes closing with frustration. “And then there are ducklings,” he mutters, mostly keeping the frustration-filled acid from his voice as he gets up.

            “It gets better,” Tron murmurs, a sympathetic smile trying to pull at his mouth. “Eventually. In some ways.”

            _Oh God, you had **two** to deal with_, Clu remembers as he rounds the chair – then pauses, a new thought rising. “I’ve forced you to that choice twice now, Tron,” he says, fingering the grooves his nails had left in the head of the chair, searching for the guts to look up. “Both times, you took the harder road.” He stalls out and looks to the other Program, not quite able to verbalize the final piece of his argument.

            Tron’s breath catches. “ . . . ‘[And that has made all the difference](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44272/the-road-not-taken).’” he concludes after a moment, nodding as he understands. “Thank you, Clu.”

            Clu nods back, a knot loosening in his chest, and he heads to the door –

            “Steev, may I borrow you a moment?” Tron calls out.

            Clu jerks to a stop at the doorway and shares surprised/confused looks with Steev. Then Clu jerks his head and a soaked-and-glowing Steev shuffles his way inside. Clu steps out . . . but can’t quite make himself shut the door and give them privacy. His foot nudges the door back open, just enough to hear Tron ask, “Are you familiar with my origin story, Steev?”

            “For the Encom System, yes,” Steev says, then sniffles as energy drips to pool around his feet. “I’m still being . . . _educated_ about your time here.”

            “Do you know it took Flynn jumping into the MCP’s core to distract it long enough for me to destroy it? And that it had found a way to insert a piece of its coding into every Program it appropriated – including the User it had kidnapped into the System – so some piece of it would survive to grow again?” Steev’s breath catches, letting out a sneeze a second later. Tron gives him a moment to reset before adding, “Do you know I had to throw my Disk into its core to eradicate the threat?”

            “Not in such blunt terms . . . but yes, that sounds right.” Steev sniffle-snorts again –

            A _click_ and shifting sound, like Tron’s standing up.

            “Sir?” Steev asks, startled.

            “I’ve spent the last twenty years fighting an MCP that figured out how to use Programs as puppets,” Tron says, and Clu risks pushing the door a little further so he can peek inside. “The MCP Encom’s fighting now has had to be far sneakier just to survive the last three decades.” Something lights up between them, making Steev glance down and lower his hand from his nose.

            “What are you asking of me.”

            “I need to know I’m clear,” Tron says, “that it has no way to attach itself to me and flip me like it did to _him_ –”

            “Why didn’t you ask my Originator, then?” Steev says, stepping back. Clu’s breath catches, his eyes going wide and jaw dropping as Tron’s spinning profile is revealed over his Disk. ( ** _ ~~Shit~~_** _ ~~, this is serious.~~_ ) “Why wait to ask me –”

            “I unfortunately thought of it after I had endeared myself to him,” Tron says, an embarrassed smile trying to pull at his mouth. “He refused even the possibility that I might be infected, too.” He swallows, holds his Disk out in shaky hands. “Please, Captain,” he whispers through a voice gone rough with emotion again. “I need you to make sure I won’t hurt anyone – they’ve been put through too much already.”

            Clu watches a muscle in Steev’s jaw bulge, a glare passing through his eyes and the Disk on his back lighting up even before he takes Tron’s Disk and begins the analysis. Tron breathes deep and pulls away, blinking hard before striding to the fireplace and clinging to the mantle; his head ducks to watch the flames.

            Minutes pass. Without thinking, Clu finds himself floating back inside to stand next to Tron, a confusing mixture of emotions churning in his chest as Tron glances his way. He feels his jaw firm; his head shakes slightly, then he bumps shoulders in understanding.

            Tron relaxes a little, getting whatever message Clu was sending. Clu turns to watch Steev, wincing as he recognizes the moment he betrays Flynn and almost kills Tron flashing through Tron’s memory banks.

            “The thing I find most terrifying,” Clu murmurs, almost to himself, “is I can’t always pinpoint where my frustrations ended and the MCP’s actions began – did I choose to rebel? Was it _me_ keeping me from derezzing you that night, or did the MCP hold me back for its own purposes? Do I still have some dangling strings it can pull?” He leans back, his arms crossing as he shakes his head again. “It’s a very brave thing you’re doing here, Tron. But is it wise?”

            “‘The enemy of my enemy’ is, at best, a neutral party,” Tron murmurs back, straightening at the chance of distraction. “Steev is the most neutral, least traumatized party I’ve found.” His eyes drift toward Steev, only to jerk back to Clu. “Am I manipulating him?”

            A soft creak draws Clu’s gaze to Steev again, who scowls as he watches a recorded Clu cower under Tron’s anger in the Arena twenty years ago. “We’ve been telling him for the last ten days that _you_ aren’t evil incarnate. Doing this is only proving it.” His breath catches a moment later, seeing Alan1 writhing under the attack that nearly destroyed the Grid shortly after Tron’s Reintegration and rescue. “Why’re you doing it, though? What’s your goal here?” he asks, turning back to Tron.

            Tron’s chest heaves, his eyes darting around before closing. “There’s another MCP out there,” he whispers like a secret.

            “Steev’s mentioned it,” Clu says, nodding. “Do you expect it to come here –?” He stops, shakes his head and answers himself. “No. It knows we exist by now; it’ll come for us eventually.”

            “If two forms of the MCP can evolve from the first, why not a third?”

            “What?” Clu straightens; refuses to let the fear cripple him. “How? _When?_ –”

            “ _Our_ MCP came by way of Flynn,” Tron says as matter-of-factly as he can, probably trying to spare Clu’s feelings, then his gaze flicks toward Steev. “ _Theirs_ mostly redeveloped over something called the internet, and through all the Programs the original MCP appropriated and then purged from Encom’s System . . . but I put my Disk through its core to do that.” He shifts his weight and releases the mantle, putting the freed hand on his hip. “If the original MCP could infect a User through a derezzing Program, if it could worm its way into a multitude of escaping Programs as _it_ died, why not into the Disk destroying it?”

            “. . . You fucking moron,” Clu says, staring at him. He waves his hands, cutting Tron off before he can begin. “Okay, putting aside the part where Alan gave you codes _specifically targeted_ to destroy the bastard, the MCP Doesn’t. Share – At best, two might gang up on a third for a bit, but the _second_ that enemy’s gone they’ll be at each other’s throats.” He feels his volume rising, but can’t make himself care. This is far more important.

            “And,” Clu continues before Tron can jump in, “as you so eloquently pointed out, it’s a _chess Program_ –” he has a passing thought to stop yelling “– and the core of _every_ game Program is to _win_ , which is why you’ll never see it content with _just_ a City, _just_ a System, _just_ a planet. – Holy _Fuck_ game-you must be _so annoying_! – It’ll always hunger for something Bigger, something More. It doesn’t know the meaning of Content, of Satisfied, of Enough. But you, Tron?” He pokes the other Program’s chest, follows as Tron shuffles back. “You _never stop fighting_ – for the Users, for other Programs, for the world, but _never for yourself_ , and you’ve only asked us to _trust you_ , you STUPID. FUCKING. MORON!” He’s heaving for breath by the end . . . at least, he thinks it’s the end –

            “Geez, Dad. Got anything else to get off your chest?” an amused voice asks from the peanut gallery he’d forgotten about.

            He closes his eyes, feeling dizzy and strangely lighter. _Yeah, one more thing._ “You saved us, Tron,” he says, eyes opening again. “Alan1 might’ve given you a kick in the pants to get started; Quorra and Sam Flynn might’ve helped, but You. Saved. Us. Fucking act like it.” _You couldn’t be less like the MCP if you tried._

            [There you are] “I’d forgotten that part,” Tron murmurs, a spark relighting in his eyes.

            Lightning flashes in the distance, thunder rumbling behind it like an afterthought as Clu rubs at his eyes. “What part.”

            Tron huffs a laugh and shakes his head at himself. “My immunity – it’s based in Alan’s original codes to destroy the MCP . . .” his humor fades. “But if that’s the case, how did Senior get infected – shouldn’t he be the stronger of us?”

            Clu’s breath catches. He fish-mouths for a few seconds, not wanting to speak the first answer that comes to mind . . . . But no other solution makes better sense.

            “Flynn mucked with your Disk a few times here,” he finally says. “Supposedly to upgrade your agility or analysis or whatever . . . I’ll bet part of it was the MCP, trying to get its claws into you like it did to me and all the other Grid-generated Programs. _That_ Tron didn’t have a reason to guard himself against any User-based threats any more than you did . . . . And once Alan1 was gone, Flynn was all he had left – a Flynn infected and heavily influenced by the MCP.” Clu lowers his head. “He probably never questioned anything he got, either . . . didn’t have a chance ‘til it was way too late.”

            A beat of silence passes while they process.

            “Could he be saved – like you were?” Tron asks.

            “Would he want to be?” Clu flings back. “After letting himself _and_ his System get infected, after perpetuating the MCP’s spread and using an innocent charge to try and kill his own Creator . . .” He winces, feeling sick at the similarities. “Would he _want_ to be saved?”

            “. . . No,” Tron breathes, his shoulders slumping again. “No, I can’t imagine he would.”

            “You might not be totally wrong, though,” Steev pipes up. They both jump, startled, and turn to him. “There could be a third MCP – Created by one and raised by the other until he was ready to attack the one User who might be able to bring any-or-all of them down . . . and using the only being with immediate access to both worlds to deliver his bomb.”

            Tron blanches and Clu covers his eyes. “Oh dear God, don’t give me _more_ nightmares,” he complains, trying and failing to reject the image of a power-hungry Tron driven by the MCP. Steev tries to smirk at him when he looks up again, but the humor just isn’t there.

            “That would make me –”

            “The Tron we need, Sir?” Steev interrupts, shutting down Tron’s Disk and tossing it back to him. “Sounds about right.” A hidden tension falls from his shoulders as he settles into parade rest. “How may I help you, Sir?”

            A beat of silence. “You Flynns, man.” Tron huffs and shakes his head, incredulous. He returns his Disk to its dock. “Every time I think I’ve got _one_ of you figured out –”

            “We surprise you again,” Clu smirks, wanting to laugh, “ ‘cause we don’t know how to stay down,” he side-eyes Tron, “like someone else I could name.”

            Tron rolls his eyes, a faint blush surfing through his circuitry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends Part 1: Reconcile. Part 2: Recompile will begin week after next at the earliest (Jan 27/8).
> 
> Good News: the writing bug's kicked up again, so I hope to keep it to just a week-long break. (Bad News: I've thought I've broken through several times over the last couple months only to tread water for weeks, so I'm hesitant to declare the writer's block broken.)
> 
> Any thoughts/questions/etc. are welcome! :-)


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tron takes a "vacation" in the human world for a bit (a.k.a. Holy blooming romance, Batman!).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, and welcome to Part 2: Recompile! This is where the multiple copies and multiple relationship tags come in, so if things get confusing LET ME KNOW so I can (hopefully) fix/adjust it in coming chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> . . . _Man_ does a lot of stuff happen in this chapter.

**PART 2: Recompile**

**Chapter 8**

_Malevolence permeates the silence here. It prickles at her circuits, making her glance around with paranoia as she moves through the area. She doesn’t really want to be here, but she’s well past her check-in time. Hopefully her User with forgive and understand her delay, after seeing all the information she’s encoded in these schematics. Security’s tightened to an almost ridiculous level, after Tron’s revelation, and she’s a little amazed she was able to slip away – getting back in will probably be the harder part, she figures, if the leaving was so easy._

_The I/O tower comes into view as she turns the last corner. She looks around again, wishing she could do a more-than-visual scan, but the last time she did that, the gridbug swarm she’d activated nearly killed her before help could arrive. (Her skills might’ve drastically improved since then, but her User had been adamant about keeping her secrecy – **any** notice is bad notice.)_

_No sign of life, which is both a relief and an unnerving development. She pulls her Disk with one hand and grasps her lightcycle baton with the other, then takes a deep breath and darts across the street and into the half-demolished tower._

_She waits a few minutes after getting in – partly to calm her pulsing energy, but also to gauge any disturbances her presence might’ve stirred._

_Nothing._

_She releases her breath and takes in another, letting go of the pale blue in her circuitry so the natural white shines again. Tapping controls awake, she debates with herself over whether revealing her true color scheme or continuing to hide it would help matters, now that Steev’s around and accepted as one of the System’s defenders. Eventually she shakes her head. Questions about why she felt the need to hide would lead to where she came from and what her User wants from Encom’s System – things she can’t answer without breaking her coding for secrecy, if such a thing’s even possible._

_The Call gets more demanding once everything’s powered up, like her User can feel the connection, too. She takes the steps two at a time and slips into the tiny room, breathless for a wholly different reason now._

_There’s a certain magic in communing with one’s User this way . . ._

_Her Disk rises gently from her palms and shoots off into the beam, streaking it white. She basks in the light, absorbing her User’s joy and pleasure while ClairAv0yant reviews –_

_“HAMALEY!”_

_She startles, settling into a fighting position just as a figure resolves and steps into the room with her. Her breath catches. This could easily become worse than Steev discovering her –_

_Clu eyes her, then looks up into the beam as his circuitry shifts from whatever it was back to green. “Who’re you talking to? What’re you telling them?”_

_She swallows, her code forcing her to silence (she hopes he can understand, with his origin-history)._

_Her User squeals with excitement, making Clu wince before he can continue. He looks her over again, realization softening his features._

_“Is ‘Hamaley’ really your name?”_

_She nods and relaxes her stance, relief and hope daring to rise._

_“Do you mean us harm?”_

_She shakes a vehement **No**._

_Her User speaks in a jumble of disjointed information Hamaley can barely understand, releasing her Disk to return to her._

_“What are you here for, Hamaley?” he asks as it descends._

_Her shoulders slump, unable to answer again. She sends him a helpless look._

_His jaw clenches, but he nods, understanding – then he snatches her Disk out of the beam before she can reach for it._

_“Will this tell me?”_

_Her breath catches, her hands rolling into fists – **obviously. It’ll tell you anything and everything you want to know about –**_

**_. . . You’re asking for permission._ **

_Her jaw firms. Their gazes lock. Her head bobs once._

_While she’s not thrilled with the invasion of privacy, her forced silence makes it the best answer she can give._

*  *  *  *  *

            The texts just added to the mystery, though they answered the surface of his questions: Tron went into Encom’s System pissed and came out scared, but Steev couldn’t pinpoint why – Tron had confronted Senior, defended from a gridbug attack (quite spectacularly, from the sound of it), then poofed back out after destroying the ‘bug queen.

            Quorra counseled a couple days’ patience and absence from the Grid, when she and Roy ( _!?!_ ) came out. She’s made a few vague comments about Tron needing time to get his head on straight and calm down since then, but nothing more. (Roy seemed worried about her at first, but the concern wiped clear when she said she would return to Encom in the morning. Asking _him_ what happened only got Sam a headshake and handwave – no answers there, either.)

            Sam manages to wrestle his concern and curiosity into compliance for twenty-four hours – well, most of ‘em – before he’s parking his bike inside and tromping downstairs again Tues day evening. Ostensibly, he’s here to give an update and offer an opportunity; in reality, he’s hoping to coax Tron out of hiding, then pin him down – _no, brain, not that way_ – and getting some answers.

            He pokes the screen awake to make sure the countdown clock is still inactive before he sits, then twirls an invisible coin through his fingers for a minute while he phrases it out in his head.

            “Well, at least I can keep one promise to a T,” he mutters to himself, smirking at his pun as he puts fingers to keyboard/screen.

TRON_JA_307020 STATUS UPDATE: Alan1 stable. Encom reviving. Would you like to see a hack from the other end? Could use a partner for this job.

            He’s barely pulled his fingers from the screen when the laser powers up and the aperture clearance prompt flashes by. He scrambles up, nearly tilting the chair over to get out of the way – not because he doesn’t want to see the Grid again. It’s just not on his agenda for today.

            A flash of light, and Tron’s blinking blearily at the computer a heartbeat later.

            “Oh, good. You’re facing away from it this time. Remind me to let Lora know,” Sam quips, swallowing against the slight adrenaline spike. Tron doesn’t react. ( _uh-oh_.) His phone buzzes before he can ask –

            _TY hes been dragging his feet n driving us bonkers.  Keep him distracted/entertained as long as you can_

            “‘Dragging your feet’?” Sam mutters.

            Tron huffs a soft laugh. “Not on purpose,” he murmurs, ducking his head. “Just not confident we should take this direction so soon.”

            “What direction?” Sam asks, pocketing his phone.

            Tron turns to face him, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Ram and Clu have mostly convinced the Grid that we have the solution to the MCP problem, and we need to use it to save the world . . . only, to do that, the Grid as a whole has to be transported and uploaded into Encom’s System.”

            “And you don’t wanna move?”

            Tron sighs and closes his eyes for a beat, his shoulders slumping before his gaze rises to meet Sam’s. “I’m tired – tired of _fighting_. I need a break, but can’t stand down long enough to take one, even when there’s no fight to be had. Everyone’s looking to me to lead them, and . . .” He chokes up, his eyes closing as he looks away.

            _He fights for the Users . . . but who fights for him?_

            Sam doesn’t let himself pause to think it through, just pulls Tron close and hangs on. It takes a couple seconds before Tron crumples against him and clings back.

            They stay that way for a minute or two, then Tron sighs again and pulls away. “They’ve kicked me out, haven’t they.”

            “Temporarily, yeah,” Sam says, suddenly awkwardly unsure what to do with his hands. He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. “Not that I knew anything about it when I made my offer. D’you wanna go back?”

            Tron thinks about it, then shakes his head. “Not yet,” he decides. “What makes you think I’d be good at hacking?”

*  *  *  *  *

_He flat-out forgot about calling until halfway through his Biology lab test the next afternoon. He feels like he’s dragging his own ass along behind him after that experience, but keeps to his promise and goes looking for a landline. He’s pleasantly surprised to find several, and settles himself at a phone kiosk in the Student Services building – quiet enough for him to hear her, not so quiet he’ll have to worry about unwanted eavesdroppers._

_He holds his breath and tries to ignore the guilt as it rings through, knowing he’ll probably only have the one chance to get his questions answered if he starts the moment she picks up. “You’ve been gone over two weeks, where did you go –?”_

_“I got in – and Holy **Shit** is it bigger than we could’ve guessed –”_

_“Got **in**? Where are you?”_

_She babbles incoherently, raising his blood pressure with her excitement until he cracks._

_“Claire – **Claire!** Where are you?”_

_She says something that leaves him scrambling for pen and paper to jot it down. His eyes snag on his watch as he writes, his stomach agreeing with the time. “Have you eaten yet?”_

_She huffs her annoyance across the line. “No, **Mom** , I haven’t eaten. I can barely stand to step away long enough to talk –”_

_“Okay, sit tight. I’ll see you in thirty to forty-five.”_

_“Ethan, don’t you **dare** bring –”_

_He hangs up and shrugs back into his backpack as he glances around. No sign anyone’s paying attention that shouldn’t. Two steps from the kiosk, his phone gives another buzz._

_Dude Where u at_

_He suppresses a growl – he’d been looking forward to game night._

_Sry Guys. Gotta miss. Claires popped again_

_His phone buzzes again as he pulls his bike from the rack. He ignores it, figuring it’s either Claire demanding he not bring her food, or the guys teasing him again about Claire being his girlfriend – which she **isn’t** . . . _

*  *  *  *  *

            They wait ‘til after nightfall, as all criminal-types do. Sam gives Tron a tour of the city and introduces him to burgers while they wait (he tries and fails not to melt into a gleeful puddle at Tron’s pleased growl). They even take a stroll along the beach so Tron can experience a complete sunset.

            It’s closing in on nine when they wander past the Savings and Loan Andy Brentwood runs.

            “I get the sense you have a history with this guy,” Tron says abruptly, “and none of it good.”

            Sam snorts. “To put it mildly,” he says, sliding them into a parking spot a couple buildings down. “He’s a classic jerk-jock – thinks he’s God’s gift to humanity, and anyone he deems worthy of his attentions should be overjoyed and grateful for them. Unfortunately, most of the people he lives and works with agree with him.” He flips his hood up after pulling off his helmet; Tron pops his jacket’s collar in an attempt to mimic him. (Heat Sam fails to ignore and pretend away spikes in his gut.)

            “There’s more to it, though.”

            Sam shrugs and shoves his hands into his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, not really wanting to get into it. “He spent most of a year trying to get Q to date him, back in high school. When I came in the next year, he started flirting with me . . . and I fell for it.” His head ducks out of habit, though he doesn’t really feel the shame anymore. He kicks at a rock, sending it further down the walk. “For two months, he had me convinced I was completely gay, not somewhere in between – that I had to be one or the other, and no middle-ground existed. Then his latest cheerleader girlfriend broke the news to me in the most over-the-top way she could find that he was leading me on to pull us snobby-genius Flynns down a peg – _he_ was the Top Dog, and we better not forget it.”

            “Idiot.”

            Sam bites back a smile. “Fast forward most of a decade: Kyle, Sonya, and I are fresh out of Service, still ironing out all the kinks of how Tronski needs to work, when a friend of a friend of Dad’s makes noises about needing to upgrade the security system on his bank, but not knowing where to start. Tronski takes the job, rips through the place easier than a wet paper bag, and all three of us walk into the meeting to give our report – including a recommendation to call the police – and Andy Brentwood’s sitting in the Assistant-Secretary-to-the-VP-Chairman-or-whatever seat.” He kicks the rock again as they drift past the building. “I practically _gave_ that fucker his meteoric rise to the top of the food chain, but he thinks I’m out for vengeance or some other stupidity – and he keeps pestering Sonya to become his new girlfriend, after he marries his latest mistress. Doesn’t matter that a lifetime of abuse has lead her to have no interest in men _or_ sex. He still thinks no woman’s allowed to say no, and a night alone with him will change her whole world.”

            “Giant walking dick,” Tron growls, making Sam choke on a laugh. “Why’re you still working for him?”

            “Not him – his boss,” Sam corrects. “The owner was so impressed with our work that he signed up for lifetime checkups. Three random times a year we come through, report what needs fixing, and Andy hems and haws and makes excuses for why the holes we found the last fifteen times are still there, most of them virtually untouched. At least, that’s how Kyle describes it. Sonya and I rarely appear at the meetings with our clients anymore. She’s tired of getting ogled, and no one believes I’m _just_ doing my job, not screwing up their company for Dad to take over later. ”

            “So why do you need me?”

            “More of a want, really,” Sam says, sending the rock on and hoping the chilly night’s enough to cover his warming face. “This particular job’s getting a little rote for us – Sonya and I even set me up to get caught last time, just to spice things up, only the alarms didn’t go off, and no one came to find out what happened – and Kyle says Andy’s got boss-man half-convinced to cancel our contract. On one hand it’s not a big deal – it’s not like we need them to stay afloat or drum up business, or anything – but on the other, none of us feel comfortable leaving our first consistent client so vulnerable –”

            “And that’s what makes you good people. But why do you need _me_?”

            “I _want_ you here,” Sam stresses, “to find and plug the holes we can’t touch – holes that we’re pretty sure _someone_ is using to steal from the bank’s clientele. Some of Encom’s employees bank here, and they’ve all reported paychecks and bonuses getting trimmed or even disappearing. I can’t allow for that.” He feels weirdly childish, his jaw jutting out as they come to a stop at the end of the block. “If it’s happening to ours, it’s bound to be happening to others. And if this is our last rodeo with this company . . .” he turns to Tron, who’s smiling softly at him.  “Will you help me?”

            “Yes, Sam Flynn. I’ll help you.”

            Sam nods his thanks and bangs on Sonya’s van door, signaling the start of the game before heading for the alley.

            Maybe thirty minutes later, Sam’s got all his stuff dealt with and he’s just futzing about, trading figurines with desk calendars, or abandoned coffee cups with fake plants and pen holders while waiting for Tron to finish up. He nudges a poster off a few degrees and turns a painting completely on its side, then steps back, snorts, and tilts his head at it. _I think it looks better this way._

            He steers clear of Andy’s office – partly to avoid any claims of impropriety Andy will no doubt make in the morning anyway, but mostly because Tron made a beeline for it upon seeing his plaque, and Sam doesn’t want to know what the Program’s getting up to in there. _Prob’ly writing a note telling him to get over himself_ , Sam thinks, smiling to himself as the blush threatens to rise again. He can’t imagine Tron being rude to a User, even by accident.

            . . . Then again, he _was_ calling Andy names by the time Sam finished his story. Maybe he should at least check in.

            An about-face and quick dozen-or-so strides later, he almost runs face-first into Tron’s cat-who-got-the-cream smirk as the Program comes out of the office.

            “Do I wanna know?” rolls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

            A sparkle is added to Tron’s gaze as he fights – and fails – to reign in the smirk. “Holes are plugged and documented. Authorities will likely get involved by week’s end, and the conspirators will be made obvious when they arrive. I’ve also met a Ram in his natural element; I’d forgotten how big a nerd he can get about some things. I see you’ve gotten up to a traditional Flynn Fling,” he adds, glancing through the haphazard room. “Have you hit the breakroom fridge yet?”

            Sam’s eyes go wide. “Oh, no. No, that’s a level of sanctity I won’t breach – people get _nasty_ when their food’s threatened. This’ll just annoy ‘em.”

            “As you wish,” Tron says, bowing a little and somehow sounding both disappointed and approving while also reigning in laughter. _Are you high or something?_ “Where to next?”

            Sam turns to salute the nearest camera and leads them toward the main exit. “Now we let things return to status quo, and maybe check in with Sonya before the fireworks start. What’s a Ram in his natural element like? The one we know seems pretty comfortable. . . .”

*  *  *  *  *

_“Are you **sure** we can’t keep him?” he whines, just to make his beloved smile. “I saw how you were looking at him.”_

_“We couldn’t hold him, even if he wanted to stay – He’s spoken for in more ways than one, already.” Ram says, watching the pair leaving their building through their newly-unjammed cameras. “Besides, that offer should really be made to **our** Tron first.”_

_Clu huffs and grumbles, “Y’really think he’s gonna change that much? He’s always such an **ass** after getting an Update from Senior, and he’s been almost **nice** lately –”_

_“You’ve seen how he dreads those Updates,” Ram reminds him, shifting away from the console. He pulls Clu close and buries his face in Clu’s gut with a sigh, their circuitry flickering with purple as Clu starts stroking his hair. “This new Tron couldn’t be much more opposite of Senior without turning female, or something. Who knows what we’ll get when ours wakes up.”_

_A discordant growling from the doorway seems to answer him. “We’ve got work to do, people,” Tron says as he strides in, his naturally blue circuitry oddly sparking with red. “Ram, excellent work with the accounts – are you keeping them frozen, or will you funnel the money back to its proper owners?”_

_“Keep them frozen,” Ram says as he straightens. They share a look as they part, confused at the oddly stupid question. “Any corrective action could be misread as a filing glitch – and potentially reveal our autonomy, to the more discerning eye.”_

_Tron nods and turns his gaze. “Clu, if you don’t already have a file available, find the most annoying earworms you can and have them assigned to the perpetrators by morning. I’ve already sent multiple anonymous tips to the police, so they’ll be investigating very soon.”_

_“All . . . right,” Clu says, not sure what he’s seeing._

_Tron nods again and goes to gather his heads of Security for a quieter briefing._

_“Is he –”_

_“Different,” Ram agrees, head bobbing slightly in the corner of Clu’s eye. “Like he fits in his skin and has a mission he **wants** to fight for. And a lot less micromanaging to boot.” He side-eyes Clu, smirking. “Kinda intriguing, isn’t it.”_

_“Less intriguing and more **hot** ,” Clu corrects and gives an exaggerated shiver. “Think we can jump that –?”_

_[Can it wait ‘til after this mess is corrected? I could really use a reward to work towards], Tron pings at them from across the room._

_Clu chokes, his knees giving way as he plops into Ram’s lap and tries to wrestle down the excited squeal making his internal systems go haywire._

_“Drama queen,” Ram murmurs at him, daring to Kiss his cheek as Tron glances their way with amusement in his eyes._

_The squeal almost escapes, Clu’s legs spazzing out while he reigns it back in. Tron’s mouth twitches in response, his steadying blue dipping into purple as heat rises in his gaze._

_Oohh, this is gonna be **good**._

*  *  *  *  *

            “The hell were y’all doing in there? I literally got a ‘Thank You Please Come Again.’ window when I turned the cameras back to their regular recording – And really, Flynn? You _had_ to mess with the peons’ stuff, too?” a woman with strangely-steaked hair grouses as they approach the white van Sam had knocked on earlier. She hops down and puts her hands on her hips, and Tron experiences conflicting urges to pet and coo at her and cower before her, overflowing with apologies when the top of her head barely reaches Sam’s armpit. _Scary-cute, even worse than Yori or Lora getting angry_ , he thinks, coming to a stop at Sam’s side. “And since when did we start bringing tour groups in? Is this gonna be a regular thing now?”

            “Sonya Annapolis, meet my old buddy –” Sam starts to gesture, the his eyes go wide for some odd reason, “– uh, T. T, this is –”

            “I’m more than a drink or a letter in the alphabet, Samuel,” Tron corrects, and offers his hand to the woman. “Tron Bradley, Miss Annapolis.”

            “Sonya,” she says, her mind suddenly on something else while she blinks at him. “That’d explain the mandroid eyes, I guess,” she mutters. (Tron glances to Sam for an explanation; Sam shrugs, his brows pinched like he recognizes the reference, but can’t pinpoint where it comes from.) Then she blinks, shaking herself out of it. “You haven’t answered me, Flynn. Is this gonna be a regular thing?” She jerks a thumb Tron’s way.

            “Nah, just a case of special circumstance and lucky timing – unless you’re gunning for a vacation, or something. Computers like T--Tron even better than me, so we’ll be in good hands if you need a break.”

            She snorts and rolls her eyes, the menace in her stance disappearing. “Yeah, like you’ll ever get rid of me.” She makes a shooing motion at them. “You boys go play and let Mama Bear do the real work, like always.”

            Sam mimics her eyeroll, and they part ways again when Sonya climbs back into her van and slams the door. They amble their way back to Sam’s motorcycle.

            “What now?”

            Sam shrugs. “Up to you. I normally go hang out somewhere public for a while – eat, party, whatever – to establish an alibi and burn off energy. If you’re not up for loud and busy, we can go hang out at my place for awhile – or would you rather head on home? They’ve had a good couple weeks by now –”

            “Not yet,” Tron says, his shoulders hunching in again as he remembers his responsibilities. “I know I probably should, but . . . I don’t wanna go home, yet.” He can feel Sam’s eyes on him as they slow to a stop a few feet away from Sam’s  ‘cycle. A few beats of silence pass, Tron unwilling to meet Sam’s gaze.

            “Alright,” he hears Sam breathe. “how ‘bout this,” he says, taking the last few steps and offering the helmet to Tron again. “I gotta pop by my place n make sure my dog hasn’t destroyed anything yet – he gets nervous when his People are gone too long – so why don’t you take the time to figure out something for us to do once I get that sorted.”

            Tension melts away, replaced by relief as Tron takes the helmet. “Thank you.”

*  *  *  *  *

            It’s a bit of an exaggeration on his part – Marv can easily handle a good five or six hours of being on his own, though it took a couple years of near-constant presence to get him there – but Sam figures giving Tron some breathing room to choose his next User-world adventure is the closest to an indirect acknowledgment and apology he can get away with without invading the Program’s personal space again.

            The humming body heat along his back is both a comfort against the cold wind and a lovely distraction, but they reach his place in good time and without trouble. Marv practically dances around on his back legs yipping as Sam walks in, so it’s pretty safe to say nothing’s happened that shouldn’t’ve. Sam scoops him up for a quick praising cuddle before setting him down again and heading off to check Marv’s supply needs. He refreshes the water bowl and adds a couple treats to Marv’s leftover food to be discovered later. He cleans up and replaces the piddle pad in his bathroom, and is about to call Marv for an outing when he comes upon the pair tentatively introducing themselves to each other in his living room – Tron on one knee and holding a hand out for a sniff, Marv’s leery little body stretched out as far as it can to _just_ get his nose against Tron’s skin.

            Sam’s breath catches, wondering if another barrier is about to fall for his little buddy.

            A pink-and-black spotted tongue flicks out against Tron’s knuckle – then Marv gives two hard sneezes and skitters away. Tron retreats as well, looking disappointed.

            “That’s pretty damn good,” Sam says, still impressed even as he bites back his own flare of disappointment. “It usually takes Marv two or three visits with someone before he’s willing to get that close – hell, it took Q five, and that was for hours at a time.”

            “He’s not used to strangers?”

            “He was abused and neglected a lot before we found each other a few years back,” Sam says, propping his shoulder against the jam. “He still has a hidey-hole under my bed for the rare times I’ve got more than three people around – but we’re doing tons better, aren’t we, buddy?” He looks down to the ball of heat sitting against his shin; Marv huffs back up at him. “Ready to hunt some squirrels?”

            Marv yips again and leads him to the back door; barely waits for Sam to flick on the light switch before barreling outside. Sam needs a few extra seconds to unlock and open the door, but he revels in being able to step out on his porch to watch the pooch dart about.

            Tron follows him out a moment later. “So you rescued him,” he murmurs.

            “We’re saving each other,” Sam rejects with a headshake for emphasis. “I give him a safe space to heal, he keeps me from drowning in nightmares.” He closes his eyes against one that’s been rearing up a lot lately. “Thank you, by the way. For protecting Dad all those years ago.”

            “It’s part of my job to –”

            “I’ve seen best friends abandon each other in a firefight,” Sam says, crossing his arms to keep his hands warm. “I’ve heard stories of sworn enemies egging each other through capture and torture until they’re rescued.” He turns to Tron. “It wasn’t duty or programming that made you fight Clu off long enough for Dad to escape. You chose to do it. So thank you.

            “You saved us too, in a way – Q and me,” he says, turning away again to stare sightlessly at the yard. “I’ve had dreams, off and on over the years, about who I might’ve become if Dad hadn’t gotten out – how lost ‘n angry I’d’ve been, virtually orphaned before I hit double-digits.”

            _Would Q and Ram have survived that night?_ shoots through his mind; his teeth grit and eyes close, not wanting to know the answer.

            “Thank you,” he breathes one more time.

            “Thank you,” Tron echoes, making Sam glance at him. “Your unwavering faith in me is part of what kept me alive – Ram’s complained numerous times about Quorra’s casual violence, when my survival was discovered,” they share a smirk over that, though Sam barely remembers the moment . . . then Tron’s smile falters, his gaze drifting into the middle-distance. “If you hadn’t called out to me at the Portal – if you, the epitome of all the MCP hated, hadn’t fought to come to the Program designated to destroy you – Rinzler would’ve killed Ram before coming after you. And there’s no way I could’ve recovered from that.”

            _So we saved each other_. “You’re welcome,” Sam says – there’s not really anything else that could be said for that. Their eyes lock, their bodies leaning closer against the chill in the air –

            A tiny, rough bark jerks Sam out of the moment. He glances down. “What, finished already?”

            Marv barks again and saunters between them to go back inside.

            _Cock-blocked by a twelve pound mutt_ , Sam thinks, not sure if he’s smiling over Marv’s new bravery or in amused regret at the lost moment. “Well. Guess that’s that,” he says shrugging to hide his blush. “Know where you wanna go next?”

. . . .

            After a little hemming and hawing, they attempt a club Sam occasionally visits near the college. It’s a bust ten minutes after arrival, Tron twitchy and on the verge of panic under the invasive noise, lights, and crowded dance floor . . . pretty crowded for a Tuesday night, actually. Maybe it’s Midterms, or something.

            They end up back at the arcade, floating through the classic games while the jukebox plays. By unspoken agreement, they avoid the Grid-related games and work their way through everything from Pac-Man and Wreck-it-Ralph to Mortal Kombat and Vice Squad II – which is surprisingly difficult for Tron. Sam glances over as Tron almost wrecks a third time. “Doing okay over there?”

            “Better than I could be,” Tron grumbles, his motorcycle veering into and clipping a car in the next lane before he pulls it back. “I figured I’d be rusty, considering I haven’t played any games like this in twenty years. I didn’t expect it to be so disconcerting to see myself driving a vehicle, but not to have any of the associated sensations. Not to mention that I’m standing instead of sit- – damn it!” His hand slams against the machine as his avatar crashes; Sam’s fingers dance over his own console, reviving Tron without thinking.

            “What – How’d you do –?”

            “Sorry, habit. You were saying?”

            “Don’t think I can talk and drive at the same time, yet,” Tron defers, and Sam bites back a snort, letting the excuse – and the conversation – slide.

            Sam declares them finished just after midnight, when Tron wrecks out yet again from yawning too big and long to see the screen. He bullies the Program to the bedroom upstairs and pulls out a couple extra blankets after a moment’s internal debate about going back downstairs to bump up the thermostat. After a . . . _discussion_ about why Sam will stay up while Tron sleeps, they settle into position: Sam taking watch in the window seat, Tron lying just off of center in the bed, where he falls asleep within five minutes.

            Sam’s proven right when Tron starts twitching and whimpering about three, pulling him from his phone screen. He blinks blearily against the darkness, trying to readjust quickly. Then a muffled yelp brings him to his feet and next to the bed . . . where he hesitates.

            Touching a soldier in mid-nightmare can be dangerous business – both for the sleeper and the shaker. If you’re lucky, you just scare them awake and there’s confusion and awkward embarrassment for both for a few minutes before things settle back to normal.

            Not-so-lucky means someone gets hurt. And neither of them needs more stress – or guilt – if it comes to that.

            Another jerk-and-groan pushes Sam to act before it can get worse. “Tron,” he calls out.  Tron curls tighter, biting off a whimper. “Tron,” he tries again, daring to lean over the Program’s ear, “You’re safe. It’s over.” A glowing tear slips out of Tron’s eye; without thinking, Sam’s hand starts stroking through Tron’s hair. “Stand down. It’s over.” Tron shivers. Sam kisses his temple, breathes in the slight electric tang coming off his skin. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Tron gasps and sighs, mouth twitching and body relaxing as his dream-crisis ends. Sam presses another kiss next to his ear and rises –

            A hand along his jaw stops him. “ _Stay_ ,” Tron rumbles, his body slightly twisted in an awkward turn, a film of galaxies sparkling in his half-opened eyes.

            Sam clasps the hand, pressing a third kiss into the palm before he breathes an “Okay” and straight- –

            Tron growls.

            “Lemme get my shoes off,” Sam says, impulsively bending to peck a promise to Tron’s mouth.

            Tron goes quiet, but his heavy eyes watch him unblinkingly as Sam wiggles out of his shoes and hoodie; he shifts enough to indicate which side he wants Sam on, so Sam ducks in under the sheets.

            “Better?” Sam asks, settling with their noses bare inches apart. Tron rumble-purrs and manhandles him onto his other side, curving himself around Sam’s back, then tucking his nose into Sam’s neck and breathing deep.

            Something teeth-like nips into Sam’s neck, making his breath hitch and a shock of goosebumps erupt over his skin. He jerks, then freezes, wondering –

            Tron sighs and goes still again once his arm hooks around Sam’s waist, twenty pounds of sleep weighing them down.

            _Hi, I’m Tron’s man-sized teddy bear._ Sam snorts, his mouth quirking as he drifts to sleep a few seconds later.

. . . .

            The sun’s well-risen by the time he wakes to a warm purring along his side and someone stroking the stubble growing on his opposite cheek. His brows pinch, trying to remember where he is and when he got a freakin’ jungle cat to come live with –

            A thumb strokes over his mouth, as though comparing soft to rough; his lips part automatically, heavy-sticky eyelids struggling to lift enough to see . . . .

            Tron doesn’t seem to believe in bedhead, his hair looking more wind-tossed than slept-on as he stares at Sam’s mouth for a moment. Then he looks up as his head lowers, a question half-hidden under the heat in his gaze. The purr intensifies, rumbling against Sam’s lips as their mouths touch.

            Sam sighs, his eyes rolling closed again as he pulls Tron closer. _Bad idea . . . good thing I’m dreaming, no morning breath to worry about . . . ._

            The purr deepens into a growl when Sam introduces Tron to tongue. He shifts to get even closer as teeth and suckling come into play, following then surpassing Sam’s lead to take control.

            Sam’s shivering with heat, feeling lightheaded as well as ridiculously horny when Tron pulls away to start rubbing their cheeks together for a breather. “I like this,” he murmurs, making Sam chuckle through his gasps. Sam’s chin lifts, his back arching as Tron nuzzles against his ear, and – oh, hey, their hips are perfectly aligned for some more-interesting action. His hips roll up again, testing; Tron’s press down in answer, the growl vibrating between their chests as they settle into finding a rhythm that electrifies. They trade a few biting kisses before Tron pulls Sam’s head back, exposing his neck for –

            “Ohshi-FUCK!” Sam shouts, the pleasure-pain of Tron biting _that spot_ on his neck shooting through his body. He feels Tron grin, then lick the sting away before moving on to lick and suckle some more, his purr somehow deepening.

            It takes a few seconds for Sam’s fingers to de-claw as memory and realization replace the pain. _This ain’t a dream_. With reluctant, heavy limbs, he urges Tron back up to his mouth and away from his neck. Then he slowly eases the fervent kissing down as he forces his own hips still again.

            Tron growls unhappily and wriggles a hand low under Sam’s back, trying to get him going again; Sam counters by lowering his hands and gently pressing Tron’s hips away while they continue to kiss. Then Sam slows things further, until he can pull away and rub their cheeks together as he murmurs, “ ‘m sorry, Tron. We can’t do this now.”

            “Why.”

            Sam fails to bite back the happy shiver that causes, and pulls Tron’s hair until they can see each other eye-to-eye (he notes and tries to ignore how much Tron seems to like the sensation). “‘Cause our timing sucks,” he starts as Tron’s eyes roll open again. “‘Cause we’re both stressed-out and exhausted and possibly working on saving the world. ‘Cause you’ve barely begun to process levels of shit I can only guess at, and I’m in the middle of saving my Dad’s company while keeping mine afloat.” He leans in and ghosts a kiss against Tron’s lips, feeling like he’s about to share a very important secret. “‘Cause while a one-off cleaning of the pipes sounds like a _ridiculously good_ idea right now, I’m not that kind of guy, and I doubt you are either.”

            The scowl on Tron’s face melts away, the hungry look in his eyes fading as understanding rises –

            They both jump as Sam’s phone rings, breaking them out of their bubble. Tron rolls his eyes and huffs, his head slipping from Sam’s grip so he can try to bury his face in Sam’s neck again.

            “Do-on’t,” he groans as Sam reaches for it.

            Much as Sam wants to agree and ignore it, that’s Kyle’s ringtone, and Kyle only calls if the world’s about to end or he needs an immediate answer – which can very easily be the same thing, if Sam _doesn’t_ answer . . . .

*  *  *  *  *

_“She’s growing up. And you’ve missed most of it,” his mate says, coming up from behind him._

_Jet bites back a sigh and ducks his head, not wanting to go through this argument again. “Why **him** , though? She could have her pick of almost any Program here, and she chooses –”_

_“The one Program anywhere close to her age and not related or beholden to her grandfather? Who would find **that** attractive?” Mockery laces her tone as she leans against the opposite tree-pillar, watching the pair. “He also managed to piss off her Daddy within hours of coming here – something even the much-maligned Clu hasn’t managed to do – and you’re surprised that she might be curious about him?” _

_Jet tries and fails not to scowl, to Mercury’s clear amusement. “Logically, shouldn’t that deter her? If I’ve already disapproved of him –”_

_Laughter cuts him off. “She’s a Flynn born of a User/Iso hybrid and a rogue Program, logic does not apply – hell, we’re lucky she’s functional **and** sane, sometimes at the same time. Let’s not push it.” She reaches out and strokes a circuit along his arm, making it flicker purple as he shivers. “Besides,” she murmurs, coyly crowding in close, “having Steev around to keep her distracted means we have time to reconnect with each other . . . maybe even try to give her a sibling before the big move.”_

_His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her against him as her hand rises to touch his lips. “Thought you didn’t care for the experience – I distinctly remember you threatening my servos if I so much as kissed you again.”_

_She rolls her eyes and stretches deliciously against him to press her lips to his. “I’ve had some adjustments since then, as you well know,” she teases back. “Or has your memory glitched in the meantime?” A bit of data flashes between them, making Jet growl against the heat while Mercury smirks and pulls away, daring him to chase her. “Come along, love.”_

_He allows himself one last glare Steev’s way, suspicious of the Program’s intentions with his daughter as Maya laughs and shoves him to the ground again, almost knocking Steev into the creek flowing past them. Steev whines through his laughter, and Maya tumbles herself down next to him, both their circuitries flickering with attraction._

_[Last one there’s a rotten egg!], his mate taunts from a distance, making him laugh. He drops his head to muffle it. **Everyone’s buzzing.** He looks over the pair one more time, then nods to himself and follows his mate’s path. **I trust you, Daughter**._

_Neither he nor Maya catches the glance Steev flicks his way, but she’s pleased to note the last bit of Steev’s tension disappearing as she attempts her first kiss . . . ._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . It's also my first attempt at slashy sexy times. How'd I do?


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tron's "vacation" in the User world continues . . . and new things begin to stir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for potential earworms. Click at your own risk. ;-)

**Chapter 9**

_They spend most of the night building the thing, and he **still** has to threaten to drug Claire’s drink and food before she agrees to try getting some sleep. ( **God** , he hates her mania swings almost as much as the depression.) He tries and mostly fails to get her to promise not to do anything else with it ‘til he gets back from his Chem test – not even plug it in – but her wild-eyed agreement’s too squirrely to believe._

_Ethan shuffles into his dorm with a sigh, sets his alarm for two hours, and scribbles a note of documentation/warning to himself before collapsing into bed._

_He’s probably gonna fail the midterm, but the professor likes him. So maybe he ca- . ._ . _zzz_ . . .

*  *  *  *  *

            Day Two of being back at work, and she’s only doing slightly better at not needing someone close by whenever she touches a computer. She’s touched base with Clu and Steev via keyboard, and was both pleased and amused to inform them that the Grid had the same idea and was preparing to move, once they were sure they were cleared of any leftover infestation – which, after Tron’s epic meltdown, should happen pretty soon.

            Part of her wants to go back _in_ and talk to them directly like she normally would, but she can’t quite stomach being that close to Senior again . . . that vulnerable.

            Her fingers slow to a stop in her typing and curl into fists as a sense of failure rises again –

            KNOCK IT OFF pops up on her screen. WE CANT AFFORD ANY GUILT TRIPS RIGHT NOW.

            A breath sighs out of her, and her fingers uncurl again. _Ha, ha, very punny_ , she types back.

            A _;-p_ answers her.

            Someone knocks on her door before they can get going again, Eddie peering through before she can accept or reject the company. “Quorra. Can we talk.”

            The door clicks shut behind him, and her lips compress even as she suppresses the urge to curl away and hide. _Why bother asking if you’re not going to wait for an answer_ , she thinks, needlessly typing a warning that she’s getting pulled away so Clu won’t worry at her sudden absence. “I guess so,” she mutters, settling back. “What’s up.”

            Eddie sits down, his breath catching as his eyes scan her. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting different –”

            “Happens when you’ve been betrayed and possessed,” she says without thinking, but keeps her face blank when he winces. “What do you want, Eddie.”

            “Some answers would be nice.”

            “Yes, they would be.”

            They stare each other down across her desk for a long minute. Then Eddie sighs and swipes a hand through his hair. “What the hell happened, Quorra?”

            Her eyebrow quirks up. “You deceived and undermined this company by adding and perpetuating faulty code that manifested in a way that’s almost destroyed the Syst- –”

            “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Eddie snaps. Anger make him rise and brace himself over her desk in a threatening pose “Why were your eyes glowing? Why did you –?”

            “I can’t trust you with a _pet rock_ right now,” she shoots back, carefully leaning back in her chair and bracing her elbows on the arm rests while keeping her body language open. _You don’t scare me_ , she tries to project. “Why the hell do you think I’d trust you with my family’s business, let alone my personal life?” _What are you holding over Dad and the Board to keep you here_ , she wonders, her eyes pinching into a glare.

            “We’re more than just coworkers, Quorra –”

            “We _might have been_ ,” she corrects, sudden anger surging her onto her feet and mirroring him. “If _someone_ hadn’t decided to follow in his Daddy’s footprints and –”

            His mouth cuts her off, his tongue darting between her parted lips. She freezes, panic, yearning, and rage churning and boiling within, sparking something alien and familiar all at once.

            He makes an intrigued noise, one hand reaching to cup her jaw –

            Miniature lightning crackles between her fingers as she shoves him off and away. “That’s assault,” she warns his shocked face as she yanks her chair back under her. “Get out of my office, Dillinger.” She pretends the flashing red on her screen’s expected, typing gibberish past it until Eddie leaves . . .

            {“You’re not really human, are you,” he murmurs before opening the door and stepping out}

then she lets herself break down in tears.

            She’s been waiting _months_ for that to happen. Why’d he have to catch on _now_?

*  *  *  *  *

            It takes getting there for Sam to think of how rumpled they must look, even with the outer layers to help cover the worst of it. He tries to dismiss the flare of embarrassment, knowing that Brentwood’s going to have a field day with him anyway, like usual.

            He just wishes Tron didn’t have to experience it, too – maybe it’s selfish or childish, but Sam doesn’t want him meeting any Users that don’t deserve the responsibility attached to the name; doesn’t want him to experience how asshole-ish people can really be.

            But Tron refused to let him go alone, even without knowing Kyle had asked that Sam’s “companion” join them as well.

            He takes in the workers of the savings and loan as he passes through to the meeting room, carefully avoiding eye contact while they continue to straighten the messes he made last night. (The painting’s still sideways. And if that pair’s awkward flirting is any indication, he might’ve yenta’d a little meet-cute by accident. Not bad.) He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath instead of tangling his fingers with Tron’s when they reach their destination, then knocks twice before entering.

            Kyle’s midway through saying something when he turns. “– good. Thank you for coming on your day off, Sam,” he says, his natural assessment habit jerking back up to Sam’s eyes before getting past his shoulders ( _that’s troubling_ ). “As you can see, our meeting’s turned a bit . . . sideways,” he says, gesturing to a room filled with suits – some of them with holsters and handcuffs under their jackets.

            “Wow, y’all got here fast,” Sam says before he thinks. “ . . . or have you been investigating for a while?”

            “See – you see, sir? He even admits it!” Andy Brentwood says, almost frothing at the mouth as he rises and shakes his finger at Sam from across the table. Sam just sighs and lets the rant commence. “This shitty little turd has been stalking me since high school – can’t stand me being a successful businessman while he jerks off over his daddy’s money –”

            “He does know that ‘shit’ and ‘turd’ are synonyms, right?” Tron murmurs into Sam’s ear, making him jump and shiver while Brentwood continues, unhindered. “And didn’t you say you created the business?”

            “Co-founded, yeah,” Sam whispers back, glad for the distraction. “I technically own it, but Kyle and Sonya insisted on naming it for a mutual childhood hero of ours – you know it’s really hot when you cuss?”

            Tron jerks back a little at the subject change, but returns with a soft chuckle. “You Flynns are so weird,” he says, shaking his head out the corner of Sam’s eye. “Theft is part of the job, slander is hardly worth paying attention to, but _bad language_ turns your crank –”

            “If someone as good and wholesome as you are is saying it, sure –”

            “You wanna know how dirty my mouth can get?” Tron says, a hint of growl in his voice.

            Sam shudders, heavy eyes threatening to roll closed. “Oh God, this is vengeance, isn’t it? For stopping earlier.”

            “Ahh. Sweet, sweet revenge,” Tron taunts, head lowering to Sam’s neck –

            “Excuse me. Who are you two,” a woman says, gum popping to express her impatience. A ring of her handcuffs catches the light as it’s chain swings around her finger.

            “Sam Flynn, Ma’am.” His face burns as he straightens. “I run the breaking-and-entering portion of Tronski Enterprises.”

            “Breaking and Entering,” she mutters, gum snapping again and brows rising as her gaze shifts up to Tron.

            “Tron Bradley,” he says, also straightening into parade rest. “I assisted Sam in finding where some missing money went, last night – I presume that’s what you’re here about?”

            “That, and this,” Old Man Walters says, jerking Brentwood’s hand over the nearest laptop.

            [Hampsterdance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WpMlwVwydo) plays.

            “And this,” a guy on the far end of the table demands, “[Never gonna GIVE YOU UP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ), never gonna LET YOU DOWN,” kicking in while his hand hovers over the keyboard.

            Kyle turns beleaguered eyes to Sam.

            Sam tries to bite down his laughter and fails. He turns the question to Tron.

            Tron shrugs helplessly. “I said to make the perpetrators obvious. I didn’t designate _how_.”

*  *  *  *  *

            _She’s not human_ keeps buzzing through his brain as he heads back to his office. He sits in his chair and stares out at nothing, bizarre details he’s noticed and dismissed over the years coming to mind and settling into an impossible picture . . .

            _Oh, God_ , he thinks, swallowing against sudden nausea. _What if it’s **real**?_

            His shaking hand jostles his computer awake. He turns on the latest speak-to-text application and opens the nearly-defunct search engine . . . then stares at the blinking cursor.

            “Clu . . .” _is this insane or just stupid?_ “Are you real?”

            The cursor doesn’t get a full blink in before the screen goes blank, Encom’s word processor opening without warning or guidance from him.

            REAL AS YOU ARE, DILLINGER comes up on the screen. PULL THAT SHIT WITH Q AGAIN, AND YOU’LL BE LEAVING ENCOM IN HANDCUFFS – AT _BEST_

            He can almost hear the growl in the words. He refuses to let it scare him. “How’re you handling the MCP?”

            WHY SHOULD I TELL YOU, TRAITOR

            The word stings, but he ignores it. “I’m the world’s leading expert on –”

            _YOUR_ WORLD’S, MAYBE, the computer says. I’VE GOT AN ARMY OF FLYNNS AND BRADLEYS AND KLEINBERGS AND EVEN A BAINES OR TWO –

            “They might know ways to fight it,” Eddie counters, “but I know what makes it tick. Maybe even how to kill it for good.” (He’s stretching the truth on that one . . . right now.)

            The cursor blinks at him once,

                  twice,

                       three ti- –

            I’M LISTENING.

*  *  *  *  *

            “Tron Bradley,” the man Sam called Kyle muses, eyeing Tron as they sit down to a late lunch. He shakes his head. “You get teased a lot for having that name?”

            “Not really,” Tron says. “Most don’t make the connection, where I’m from.”

            “And where’re you from?”

            “That’s kinda complicated,” Sam interjects, delaying the conversation until after Sonya and their drinks arrive.

            “How is ‘where are you from’ complicated?” Kyle questions once they’ve settled into waiting for their food. He sits up, eyes narrowing as he challenges, “Who are you, really?”

            Sam surges forward – Tron presses his shoulder back and squeezes it in thanks before mirroring Kyle across the table. “I am Tron-Ja307020, son of programmer Alan Bradley and Encom’s motherboard,” he says, staring Kyle down even as Sam makes a snort-choking sound into his drink. “However, I’ve spent most of my existence on a secret System of Flynn’s design called the Grid, where I’ve recently discovered – through several twists of fate that _would_ be unnecessarily complicated to summarize for you – that I’m able to step out of my world and into yours.” He sits back and reaches for his own drink, adding, “It’s less complicated and more unbelievable, really.”

            “Is this a spoiler for the next game?” Sonya asks Sam while Kyle blinks through processing.

            “ _Next_ game? Of what?”

            “The TRON series,” she says, looking both confused and suspicious when she glances at him.

            “I’m a _series_ , now?” Tron turns to Sam. “When did that happen? How many are there?”

            “Q’s been working on number five for the last couple years, now,” Sam says, another distracting tinge of pink appearing on his cheeks. “Come to think of it, a lot of what’s happened on the Grid has appeared in the games – the Isos’ appearance, Clu going crazy and purging ‘em –”

            “Rumor has it that Tron was the original villain for that,” Sonya adds, and is ignored.

            “– A User trapped on the System causing havoc, and you going MIA, presumably dead –”

            “Only a baddie named Rinzler bears the Tron mark, so a lot of us are skeptical.”

            “–And the last one was keeping Clu and some government company from conquering the world, or some stupidity. It didn’t do so hot,” Sam ends with an annoyed glare Sonya’s way.

            Tron splutters for a second, reeling to catch up. “If I’ve gone missing, who’re you playing?” he asks, unnerved.

            “A character called Anon for the second one,” Sam says. “Then Beck and Jet respectively for the other two. I don’t know if Q’s named the new hero, yet – maybe Ram or Yori’ll come back into play –”

            “You can’t believe this!” Kyle finally rejoins them. He point an accusing finger at Tron. “This guy’s either delusional or a con-artist, not a computer program in the flesh!”

            “Lower your voice, K,” Sonya tries to slip in –

            “I’ve been to the Grid, Kyle,” Sam counters calmly. “You could prob’ly recite the story with me, at this rate.”

            Their food arrives before Kyle can answer, giving the man a little extra time to think. “You were a seven-year-old in a traumatic situation, Sarge. Why wouldn’t you retreat to something that felt safe and familiar to explain –”

            “And again less than two weeks ago, Corporal. Not just two decades back,” Sam says, twirling his fork in his pasta before lifting it to his mouth. Tron watches and mimics him. “Oh, by the way – how’d you figure out how to text me?” he asks Tron, jerking his fork down again.

            “. . . _Text_ you?” Tron asks before taking his first bite – then a purr rolls out of his chest at the new flavor. His eyes droop with pleasure as he chews.

            “Yeah,” Sam says, wiggling around to reach his phone. “Got it Friday afternoon, asking for another week – sorry Lora jumped the gun on that –”

            “I’m not,” Tron says, reading the ‘text’ . . . and smiling at the one from yesterday. “It must be Bug – he’s the only one I was able to pass your number to, and he mostly speaks in simple sentences. The second one’s Steev. Does he know nothing of spelling or grammar?”

            “Figured it was – that’s pretty normal text-speak. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He takes his phone back and takes a bite – “Wait. Bug _talks_?”

            “Everyone’s so surprised at that –”

            “Bug? Steve? More fantastical beings from your fake world?” Kyle mocks.

            “Sam’s own creations – and I’d appreciate if you _don’t_ make fun of them,” Tron warns, his purr returning as a slight growl. Kyle sits back as his eyebrows rise to the challenge.

            “And why’s that? Having trouble keeping track of all the characters in your story?”

            “Because they’re Sam’s kids, and part of why the MCP hasn’t taken over your world yet.”

            Kyle snorts and rolls his eyes. “The MCP – now you’re _really_ reaching –”

            “It’s what’s killing Encom right now,” Sam says, a staying hand pulling Tron back from the fight. “It’s killing Alan, too. That’s why I’ve been AWOL the last week.” He spears a piece of meat with his fork and bites before throwing another look at Kyle. “You gonna fight me on that, too?”

            “Steev’s posited another one,” Tron says before Kyle can start. His stomach twists as he looks to Sam. “He thinks isolation and Flynn’s infected meddling might’ve predisposed Senior into welcoming the MCP’s corruption. That’s why he went after Quorra and Alan – he _chose_ to fall, probably years ago.”

            “Oh, _shit_ ,” Sonya breathes.

            Sam goes still, his eyes wide and skin paling to sheet-white. “If that’s the case, then we’re doomed – Senior’s been copied, distributed and regularly updated for millions of people around the world –”

            “If the bank’s Tron is a typical sample,” Tron cuts Sam off and glancing acknowledgement to Sonya, “then the infection didn’t pass on to the copies, and they can sense his corruption. They’re all leery of anything he brings to them – or rather, anything he _forces_ on them, since they’re not allowed to question or have differing opinions on anything when he’s around –”

            “That’s why your eyes were glowing last night,” Sonya breathes, pulling the men’s gazes her way. She locks onto Tron. “It wasn’t a trick of the light or a camera quirk. You were connecting to the system and talking directly to programs. You’re a mobile I/O tower.”

            _There’s an image_ , Tron thinks, turning the question to Sam.

            “Your eyes glow,” Sam says, nodding slightly in his distraction. “Q’s do, too.”

            _Huh_. Kyle makes a skeptical sound –

            “How’s the food? Anything else I can get you?” the waiter asks, sweeping by and ending the conversation.

*  *  *  *  *

            The code keeps blurring before him, no matter how many times he blinks or rubs his eyes. He sits back and props his feet up on the corner of the desk, then drops his chin into a palm. When silence continues to reign, he releases a sigh and lets himself fall into something like sleep mode –

            “How’re you holding up?” jerks him upright again.

            “I don’t know if I’m ready for another war,” Clu confesses, relaxing as he recognizes the voice. “But I _do_ know hiding from it won’t work. For anyone.” He turns to Jarrex. “What about you – are you ready to move to a whole new System?”

            Jarrex thinks on it, then shrugs. “Maybe it’s hubris, but I’m more worried about Tron than the move – if he falls, we’re toast.”

            “Think that’s more faith than hubris,” Clu corrects, his mouth quirking. He pushes away from his desk and rubs at his eyes again, sighing out a yawn. “We’ll be okay, long as we work together.” Another (harder) yawn catches him, his jaw threatening to pop.

            “I like this you,” Jarrex muses as it ends. A questioning eye peeks out at him. “You’re more confident, but not overbearing or cocky about it. You ask for alternatives and opinions, and don’t pout or throw a fit if things don’t go your way. Like you’ve finally grown up.” His head cocks. “Was it Quorra’s visit or yelling at Tron that did it?”

            Clu snorts, a hint of lavender embarrassment slipping through his white circuitry. “Little bit of both, prob’ly,” he says, then shakes his head. “Still can’t believe Steev recorded it, let alone put it out there – or the response it got.”

            “I can – and I’m a little relieved,” Jarrex says, reaching to squeeze his shoulder. “The last thing Tron needs or wants is to be put on a pedestal and worshipped, which is what some Programs were starting to do. Can you imagine the levels of chaos that would bring – _especially_ if the suspicions about his Originator prove accurate, even in a general sense?”

            Clu shudders. “Ugh, I don’t want to.”

            Jarrex laughs. “Is Baby ready for his nap?” he teases.

            “ _Yes_.” He stands to leave. “Put me inna corner n lemme alone. I wanna _sleeeep_ ,” Clu grumbles just to make the other Program laugh again as they head to quarters.

            “Why are you still up, anyway? Even the Twins have called it quits for the night.”

            “I’m trying to figure out how Tron’s beaten the MCP so many times – there’s no obvious pattern, but I’m sure there’s a common thread –” another yawn cuts him off.

            Jarrex hums to himself as the yawn ends. “I thought it was Flynn jumping into the MCP that killed it, the first time.”

            “And Tron’s Disk –” _And Yori steering Sark’s ship to get Flynn there . . . ._ He slows to a stop. “It took three to break out of the Gaming grid back then, too . . . Three to free Tron here . . . Three to break me out.” _And Jarvis wanted Rinzler so badly . . ._ “That’s _it!_ ” He turns –

            “Woah – hey – _wait!_ Sleep first. Leave the rest for later.” Jarrex demands, catching his arm and holding him in place.

            “Yeah, right. Okay,” Clu mutters, mind buzzing anew. _It takes three. It takes three. It takes three . ._. .

 


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More pieces fall into place. It sure seems our heroes are well on the road to victory . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I need to post a WARNING for Grid!Clu's suicidal ideation beginning in the last section of this chapter (. . . though one could argue it began in the epilogue of Renegade?), and will continue for the next several chapters. Is it a big enough issue to add to the tags above, you think?

**Chapter 10**

Tron _spends half of forever coming back to them. And when he does, the heat mirage his blue circuitry’s emitting makes everyone even more leery of him than usual. With no one else willing to approach him, it’s once again Clu’s job to take the brunt of Senior’s pervasive ire . . . though it’s odd, now that he thinks of it, that Senior came to **them** , rather than pulling Tron away._

_Maybe it’s something to do with the mess at Encom._

_“Hey, man,” he says, stepping out to meet Tron before he reaches anyone else. “That Update sure took a while. Everything oka- –?”_

_His legs are swept out from under him – Tron catches him before he can do more than gasp – and his mouth is getting thoroughly plundered before he can process the change. Clu can only groan and cling to the Program he’s loved from Resolution, choosing to focus on every detail of this experience over the strange information filtering between them, since he may never get it again._

_The moment ends far too soon, Tron gently pulling Clu back to his feet and touching their foreheads together as they heave for breath._

_“We’ve got a lotta work ahead of us,” Tron murmurs to him._

_Clu’s loosened grip tightens again in protest. “Can we do **that** again, first?” he tries not to whine._

_Tron grins – full-on **grins** – at him before pecking a promise to his lips and pulling away, heading for the others. “Housecleaning, first – then, if we find our Third quickly, we can get back to –”_

_Wait. **“What?”** Clu squawks, the flickering purple in his normally-green circuitry flushing right out._

_The sound jerks Tron to a blinking, confused stop. Then a sparkle rises in his eyes, and he grins again. “Not **that** kind of Third,” he says, voice trembling slightly like he’s trying not to laugh as he offers his hand._

_Confused as he is, Clu can’t **not** take it, Tron pulling him close again to give him a softer, gentler Kiss. “Okay,” he breathes, understanding a little better when Tron releases him. “Let’s get to work.” _

*  *  *  *  *

            “Wow. That . . . that’s weird,” Tron declares, pulling away from Sonya’s computer and shaking his head.

            “What – is everyone okay?”

            “Yes, they’re fine. And your System’s pretty clean, too,” Tron says, then rubs at his eyes. “It’s just . . . Apparently, Senior’s bindings wouldn’t allow for any romantic or emotional entanglements for any Tron after me, so the information I give them has not only made them more anti-Senior, it’s also freed them to, uh . . . ‘get it on’? with certain Programs I’ve never considered getting romantically involved with.” _Thank God Steev’s latched onto Maya and Clu, not me . . . or Ram._ He grimaces and shakes his head again. “It’s not a bad thing, I’m not condemning it, it’s just not visuals I want in my head, y’know?” An eye peeks out –

            And Sam catches on. “Oh – ew. Eewww. Why’d you – eew!” He flails; tries to physically wipe the images from his head. “No! EEWW!”

            “You think you understand my pain,” Tron teases sardonically, now fighting a smile as he watches, hands propped on his head. “But you’re not seeing yourself doing it.”

            “ _EW!_ ”

            “What am I missing – why the show?” Sonya murmurs into Tron’s ear as Sam continues to spasm and protest.

            “He’s never run into parental units in a compromising position, I take it.”

            She thinks on it, then hums an “O-oh . . . Little hypocritical, isn’t it?” She brushes a finger along his neck, drawing his eyes to the faint yellow-green evidence still fading from Sam’s neck. “Considering what you two must’ve been getting up to when Kyle called.”

            Tron’s eyes grow heavy, a possessive smirk pulling at his mouth at the memory. “We’re not our parents,” he rumbles, then stands out of his chair. “Enough theatrics, Sam. You’re still driving – is there anything else you need us for, Sonya?”

            “Nah, I’ll be fine – try not to break him, though. He’s good for business.”

            “You mean I still have to _share_?” Tron pouts playfully. She snorts and smacks his arm.

            Sam draws himself into a dignified attention and pronounces a final “Yuck,” in case they’ve missed his opinion on the matter.

            “Maybe I should be the one driving, if you’re still so distracted,” Tron goads, eyes raking over Sam again as he grabs their helmets and heads for the door. “Good to meet you, Miss Sonya – we’ll see ourselves out.”

            {“It’s just Sonya –” the door closes between them before she finishes. “– Tron,” she finishes, a smile growing as she marvels at the last twenty-four hours. Then her eyes drift to her computer, already back in its screensaver mode. “Let’s see what he’s done to you,” she murmurs to herself, taking a seat and tapping the mousepad to wake it up again.

            Her eyes skim over the code, seeing more rearrangement than outright changes – probably a good thing, right? He’s technically an older model, even with the new abilities – and boots up the old TRON arcade game to give her security system a little extra boost in the cleaning process . . . . }

            Sam presses a key-shape into his palm while they wait for the elevator. “You know where you wanna go?” he murmurs, fingers slipping down to take the helmet so Tron can hold onto the key.

            The elevator pings open and they step in before Tron can formulate a reply. “I was really just joking,” he says, raising his freed hand to look over the keychain. “Are you okay with me –”

            “I don’t give my keys to just anyone,” Sam says, his gaze heavy with heat. “Where to?”

            _Bed_ , Rinzler growls within, and Tron c _an see himself crowding Sam against the wall and kissing him hard, continuing what they started this morning as Sam groans and wraps his limbs arou-_ –

            The elevator dings, yanking him out of the fantasy as the doors open for a group of women to enter.

            “Probably should head back,” he murmurs under their loud chatter. His hand drops, a finger catching in the ring so the keys jingle softly between them. “Maybe check in at Encom first.”

            “Not Alan?”

            He thinks on it, yearning and hope rising. Then sighs and squashes them with a headshake. “Alan’s fighting his own battle. I’ve given him all I can without harming him further – even popping in could be a distraction he can’t afford right now.”

            Sam nods. “So the vacation’s over?”

            He bites back a regretful sigh. “World can’t save itself.”

*  *  *  *  *

_{His surroundings have shifted to an amalgamation of his bedroom in the command center and his old office at Encom. Occasionally he’ll push the coding outward, letting the Enemy slip a few tentacles in for him to trap, study, and adapt to, but he hasn’t quite gotten up the guts to just open the door and walk beyond his little lair._

_He has a feeling he’s playing right into the Enemy’s hands this way – that he’s teaching Jarvis as much as learning from the bastard – but he’s also Patient Zero, and he’ll be damned if he lets this virus spread any further than him. . . ._

_**God** , he hopes Quorra’s okay.}_

*  *  *  *  *

            It’s so incredibly tempting to feel Tron up on the drive over, but Sam’s a good boy – outside of a few twitches and rubs to get that purr rumbling again – and doesn’t distract the driver. The double-barrier of their helmets proves most annoying, forcing him to yell directions instead of burying his nose in Tron’s neck.

            They make another swing by his place to check in with Marv – who throws a barking fit at Tron until the Program sits down for a sniff-exam (“Did you model Bug on him?” Tron asked as Marv snuffled in his ear – to which Sam cocked his head and replied, “Uh . . . not on purpose?”) – as the sun sets, then head on to Encom, which is midway through it’s 5:00 mass-exodus for the day.

            Parking and getting inside proves to be a bit of an obstacle course for not getting run over, then they’re greeted with Leon’s nervous-but-welcoming smile.

            “Good evening, Sirs! Welcome back.”

            “Leon, do you ever take a day off?” Sam asks as Leon rounds the reception desk towards them.

            “Only when it’s my day off, Sir,” Leon jokes back, gesture-leading them to the elevators.

            “I still need an armed escort?” Sam asks –

            “You’re looking much better than when I saw you last, Sir,” Leon loudly tells Tron, overriding Sam and the elevator’s ding. They shuffle aside to let the new flood out. “I take it your health’s improved since Monday?”

            “Yes. Much improved. Thank you,” Tron says, looking unnerved and a touch confused as they step inside.

            “To Miss Quorra or Mr. Flynn, gentlemen?”

            Sam looks to Tron, who shrugs his answer. “Uh, Dad, I guess,” he says as the doors close.

            Leon pushes then button, then his shoulders slump as he sighs. “No, Sir, an armed guard’s no longer a requirement – and hopefully I’m just being paranoid,” he murmurs, “but this is the first day Encom workers have left happy in over a week, and I don’t want it twisting negative if the wrong people see you coming in unescorted.”

            Sam huffs a humorless laugh. “You sure you don’t want that promo- –”

            “There is no promotion,” Leon says flatly. He turns to Sam. “There are no pay raises,” he adds with a Jedi handwave, then shakes a warning finger. “You give me enough ulcers already!”

            Tron shouts a laugh, then covers his mouth to reign it in. His eyes are still sparkling with mirth when Sam checks on him.

            He impulsively plays along, letting his shoulders fall and putting on his saddest of sad puppy faces. “I’ve been betrayed!” he pout-mourns, making Tron snort again.

            “Yes, Sir,” Leon says, turning around as the elevator slows and dings to a stop. “Your life is So Hard.”

            “Just you wait, Leon Gonzales,” Sam mutters darkly after they step off. “I’m gonna name my next Program after you.”

            “Oh, dear God, no,” Leon says, coming to a stop midway to Dad’s office and closing his eyes in prayer. “Nononono.”

            “Yeeeesssss,” Sam hisses back, becoming rather taken with the idea –

            “Hey,” Tron pipes up, laughter still bubbling in his voice. “Between him and Steev, that means I can retire, right?”

            “NO!” Leon shouts, and Sam grins.

            “What the hell would you do with yourself in retirement?” Dad asks, approaching them out of nowhere. “Become a tower Guardian?”

            Sam’s and Tron’s eyes snag on each other before Tron grimaces at the thought, humor fading. “Maybe I’ll join Beck’s shop – become a test pilot, or something.” His nose wrinkles, like he’s not sure about that idea either, then he looks back to Dad. “How’re things here – Leon says it’s improving?”

            “Did he,” Dad says, casting a glance at the security guard.

            “The atmosphere is, at least,” Leon says, shrinking into himself. “Sir.”

            “Hmm. You’re not wrong,” Dad says, nodding to Leon. “They’re able to pin down and wipe out bits and pieces of the MCP’s attacks now, but it’s little more than skirmishes – I think they’re really prepping the System for the Grid’s integration. How’s that coming?”

            Tron’s jaw drops, Leon bowing out of the conversation as Dad takes the lead back to his office.

            “I . . . wasn’t aware the idea had spread –”

            “What the hell are you doing here!” Sam snarls upon seeing Dillinger Jr in Dad’s office.

            “Fixing my mistake,” Junior retorts snidely, still typing away at his laptop. “What’re _you_ doing –” he cuts himself off with a gulp, eyes going wide when he looks past Sam’s shoulder to the heat at his back.

            “Gre- – Hello,” Tron says, curiosity and suspicion mingling in his voice.

            “Tron, Eddie Dillinger, Junior; Eddie, this is our security program in the flesh –”

            “Dad, is that really a good idea –” Sam protests.

            “Can any program come into our world?” Dillinger asks, face blank with terror.

            “I’m the only one I know of, though Beck and Jet probably could too.” Sam can feel Tron’s glance, but doesn’t stop glaring at Dillinger. “Actually, there’s a good chance any Iso could, though I doubt many would be willing to test it anytime soon.”

            Dillinger snorts faintly, trying to rally. “What, you got something against Anon?”

            “Not at all,” Tron says, completely unironically. “But no one still living knows his origins or even his name, so I can’t predict whether or not he has an ability to come here.”

            Sam blinks, leans back. “There’s an Anon on the Grid?” he asks out of the side of his mouth.

            Tron smiles. “He mistook Alan for me, when they were being prepped for the Games. Shara and their male companion might’ve known more about him, but no one remembers him from before that meeting – actually, the first record the Grid has of him was when he announced to a Square filled with Programs that I was still alive.”

            “ _‘Tron Lives,’_ ” Sam and Dad say together, their eyes meeting.

            Tron nods. “The last words he ever spoke – he’s known only as Gem and Zuse’s personal bodyguard, now.”

            “Huh.”

            “How would you do a transfer, anyway?” Tron asks, pulling back to the original conversation. “I can’t imagine you’d lug that heavy old desk from the basement all the way up here –”

            “Flash drive,” Sam spits out, to Tron’s confusion. “We load everyone onto a portable device, then download ‘em all here . . . “ He blinks. “Come to think of it, that might be massively uncomfortable. And the Grid itself prob’ly wouldn’t transfer in the process. Might need to look into moving the desk here, after all. The laser, too.” He looks to Dad, who shrugs.

            “No idea what transport feels like from the program perspective. But I’m game for bringing the desk n such here – think you can handle that?”

            “Got a place to put ‘em?” Sam counters –

            “Clu’s asking for you . . . Tron,” Dillinger pipes up, then hides behind his laptop again.

            “Guess I’d better check in, then,” Tron murmurs, stepping out from Sam’s protective shadow. He turns to point at all of them. “No carnage, you two – Flynn, can you referee?”

            Dad snorts. “Who here’s raised two kids?”

            Tron smirks back. “The Boys call me Dad as much as Uncle, these days – and I _know_ Maya calls Alan ‘Grampa’.”

            _Maya? Who’s_ _–_

            “Wait. I’m a grandfather? When’d this happen? _Samuel_ –!”

            “I was seven, and you weren’t listening,” Sam supplies with a handwave, his glare shifting to Tron’s back as the Program rounds the desk for Dad’s chair. “Jackass Bradley,” he mutters just loud enough to travel.

            Tron flashes him an unrepentant grin before his eyes start to glow and he dives into the System, the chicken.

            {He types in a play-by-play request while eyeing the two Flynns’ argument, both curious about and leery of the latest development. Having confirmation that his Dad’s nightmares could have a basis in reality both horrifies and intrigues him . . . especially when Tron’s eyes glow like Quorra’s did when everything went wrong. . . .}

*  *  *  *  *

_She misplaces almost three hours’ worth of time, so she chalks it up to ‘good enough’ on the sleep front and heads back to her lab to analyze more of the code her spy program’s given her. More time is lost until some point in the early afternoon, when both her stomach and bladder start protesting her abuse. She saves her spot, skims over what she’s already categorized, then heads for the restroom and food, stopping only long enough to plug in the contraption – it’s called SHVA, which feels familiar – so it’ll have some juice to work with when Ethan comes back._

_A yawn catches her, making her ears pop on the way out. The energy that’s been driving her for . . . how many weeks, now? is starting to ebb, which means she’ll probably be diving off the cliffs of depression within the next few days . . . ._

_Restroom conquered and food acquired about forty-five minutes later, she very nearly drops and chokes on her burrito simultaneously when she returns to flashing light and – and –_

_The light dies. Her computer screen steadies out. And she **very carefully** sets her burrito down, swallows her bite, and reaches for her phone without taking her eyes off the new thing in her space._

_Get your ass back here ASAP!!_ _she texts Ethan._ _I think I might be hallucinating._

_It normally happens at her peaks, not her plateaus, but if she hasn’t slept for weeks – and she’s pretty sure she hasn’t . . ._

_She eventually throws a tarp over the thing so she can keep working. And she doesn’t know if she’s more surprise, relieved, or horrified when the tarp takes its shape instead of falling to the ground. **Oh god, oh god, oh god** keeps buzzing through her head, giving her the energy to focus._

_But she never once thinks to unplug the SHVA._

*  *  *  *  *

            The others keep asking Steev for guidance on what Encom’s System is like, how to prepare, only for every explanation requiring three more that devolve further and further into gibberish. Clu can almost follow some of it, thanks to ancient conversations he had with Flynn and his Encom-twin’s encoded translation, but his head quickly starts to ache with all the offshoots spawned by trying to answer a simple, direct question. He bows out as soon as he can more and more, hyperaware that he could be accused of manipulating the situation for his own ends. Not that anyone has – not in his hearing, at least – but he’s sure the suspicion will surface eventually.

            He also tries to keep himself visible so no one can say he’s planning something behind their backs . . . which leads to a lot of frustrated boredom, when he has a potential answer that he doesn’t dare voice when the same problem comes up in every meeting.

            Case in point: two half-functioning Cities that were diametrically opposed to each other from the beginning now must find a way to work together, but they’re so busy arguing about which should merge with whom and what to do with Programs that have nearly-identical functions that they’re totally missing the solution – which, coincidentally, will also make the move to Encom much easier when it comes –

            “Got an idea, Da- Clu?” Steev asks, silencing and turning the group his way.

            Clu jumps, startled, a chess piece bouncing in the air until he catches it again. “What?”

            Amusement pulls at Steev’s mouth as frustration burns in his eyes. “You’ve been muttering – and more than about your little game, there.” His gaze bounces to the chessboard as he aborts a gesture toward it. “You got a suggestion for this conundrum?”

            _Do you know who you are?_ Tron’s voice whispers from the past. Clu shakes it from his head before bending to put the piece back and avoid looking at anyone as he says, “Both Cities have been touched and corrupted by the MCP – no matter how clean we get them, there’ll always be a lingering doubt that a spot was missed. And Encom’s MCP will use that fear against you as soon as you move over. So the only solution I see is to lose both partial Cities and build a new, fully-functional one. As a bonus, it’ll mean you’ll also be ready to move all the sooner.”

            A Program – Clu thinks his name’s Shaddox – snorts. “I suppose you want it named for you, since you came up with the idea.”

            Clu grimaces. “God, no. If it needs a name, you could call it . . . I don’t know, Grid City, or something.” He waves a dismissive hand. “You’ll need to keep it neutral, since Programs from both Cities will be living there –”

            “And where will you be?” Steev asks, eyes narrowing.

            Clu blinks, nonplussed. “I’m only slightly less guilty than Jarvis – and you won’t have any use or need for me anyway, with Encom’s Clu bouncing around –”

            “You’re staying behind.” Ram says, turning from the table. His face is blank of expression; Clu doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not.

            “If it’s not already a foregone conclusion . . .” Clu pulls his shoulders back, lifting his chin and puffing his chest against the assembly before he nods. “Yes.”

            An eternity in isolation leading to a slow, painful death – with, perhaps, a lingering stop at insanity – ought to satisfy justice and everyone here, and it’s not like they’ll have any issues with Encom’s Clu.

            Steev looks devastated, his head shaking slightly as tears form in his eyes. Jet’s jaw and fists clench as his circuitry surges with light. Shaddox, at least, looks pleased at his decision.

            “Alright, then,” Ram says. Clu almost fancies a dimming in his gaze as he turns back to the meeting proper. “Where would be a good site to build a new City . . .”

            “Can we talk a minute,” Jarrex demands over his shoulder a moment after the group forgets his existence again. A part of Clu flinches under the tone, but he nods agreement anyway.

            They walk into the hallway, where Jarrex whirls on him almost before the door slides closed. “So all your talk of threes was your latest form of bullshit?”

            Clu blinks. “No. You have a multitude of trio combinations to handle the fight when it comes –”

            “Only you, Tron, and Steev have any sense of the world we’re walking into. We’re going to need you to survive.”

            _No you don’t –_ _Quorra and the other Clu know it even better._ Clu crosses his arms and shrugs. “It’s a moot argument, anyway. If the Users decide all of the Grid’s Programs must go to Encom, then clearly I’ll be among them.” _If only for the transition –_

            “But you’d rather die, if you have the option. Take the easy way out –”

            “How is death easy?”

            Jarrex scowls. “Living is one of the hardest things any being can do. You’ve barely even tried, and you’re already talking suicide –”

            “Because I deserve it!” Clu winces and closes his eyes a moment; tries to reel in his volume a little too late. “I was Created to build a perfect System, and nearly destroyed everything instead –”

            “That was Jarvis’ doing, not your- –”

            “What’s the difference? I was _made_ with the MCP inside me –”

            “So was Yori, the second time,” Jarrex counters. “Does she deserve death, too?”

            “Wha-? Of course not! She didn’t do –”

            “Does Tron?” Jarrex sidles closer, pressing Clu against the wall. “I was there, you know. Those first few times you put Rinzler into the Games. I watched him slaughter coworkers, friends, Isos he’d been training when the coup went down. Does he deserve death for what he’s done?”

            “No,” Clu whispers, on the verge of tears. “I _used_ him to . . . .” His throat closes up and he ducks his head away.

            Jarrex leans in, catching his gaze again. “How is that any different from what the MCP did to you?”

            “In other words: If Tron and Yori are allowed to live down the harm they’ve caused, why aren’t you?” Ram’s voice asks, startling them both. His face is still mostly blank, with only the slightest hint of something like annoyance breaking through as he leans out of the meeting room.

            “I –” Clu croaks, then swipes a hand down his face, unable to give an answer.

            “You’re not wrong on one thing – it _will_ be the Users’ choice, if anyone gets left behind.” Ram steps aside, blocking the sliding mechanism to seal the doorway as he intones, “As the senior-most Program of this System, you are the undisputed expert in its workings. Where would you have us build this City.”

            _Oh._ _No wonder you’re annoyed_ , Clu almost says. Ram had run New City quite well over the last twenty years. It must gall him horribly to ask his enemy for guidance on anything . . . and an implicit blessing, with no Users around to empower him this time. He tries to pull his ‘game face’ on, nodding acquiescence to Ram before striding back into the room.

 

            He never does get back to his chess game.

 


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minutiae - necessary, but annoying.

**Chapter 11**

            His dip into Encom’s System proves mostly unnecessary – welcome, but unnecessary. The Programs are still quite tired, but hope and confidence have replaced the fear and dread he witnessed on Monday . . . except for Steev, who looks a little stiff and disgruntled, hovering at Clu’s side.

            It only takes Clu lighting up when Hamaley stops by for Tron to catch onto the reason. He manages to make a few noises that pull Steev and himself away so the pair can flirt with a minimal audience.

            When several minutes pass in silence – and nothing abates the flirting game behind them – Tron opens with an observation: “I thought Hamaley’s circuitry was blue.”

            “It was,” Steev grumbles, eyes flicking at her now-white circuitry. “Clu won’t tell me why it changed, either. Just that her User sent her undercover and ‘it’s not his secret to tell’.” He sneers through the quote.

A chill washes over Tron, making him pause and choose his words carefully. “That must be massively frustrating, even when you’re not already in the middle of a war.”

            Steev snorts. “Tell me about it.”

            Tron snorts back, trying to ignore the dread budding in his gut and lighten the mood. “My closest equivalent to your situation turned out to be a User himself, which disqualifies . . .” he drifts off, remembering that first ride on a Solar Sailer. When Flynn had approached Yori, unfazed by her retreat and unaware of her rejecting pings until Tron stepped between them. _Did the MCP have enough pull on Flynn even then, to try and use him to take back Yori?_ He shivers, then shakes the thought out of his head. “Has she said or done anything to suggest she might be a threat?”

            “Outside of hiding her origin and purpose? Nothing he’ll tell me.”

            Tron hums and pauses again, considering. “Has he changed significantly?”

            Steev sighs. “Only in the gooey, lovelorn eyes department. He’s still gung-ho about fighting the MCP off and clearing a space for the Grid to come in . . . but the second _she_ walks in, everything else goes by the wayside.”

            Something in the phrasing has Tron clasping the younger Program’s arm. “Guard yourself, Steev,” he says, holding on as Steev startles and tries to jerk away. “I saw that look on Clu’s face dozens of times before the Isos even showed up, and never said a word. By the time I _did_ speak up, it was too little too late – Flynn refused to listen, and the MCP already had both of them under its thumb. Don’t let it grab you.” He sends a packet through their connection detailing the progression of Clu’s ire – from the first frustrated clench of teeth to the world-conquering speech Tron had interrupted last week.

            Steev goes still, head bowing as he analyzes the information. “How?” he finally asks. “What can I do to keep that from happening?”

            Tron releases him. “I don’t know if there’s a quick and easy answer to that,” he says. “Do you trust his judgement in everything else?”

            Steev takes a minute to think on it. “. . . Yes.”

            “Have you talked to Clu about your misgivings?”

            Steev’s shoulders slump. “Tried a couple times. It just dissolves into a nasty argument.”

            _And that’s why he’s ‘Clu’ now, not ‘Dad’._ Tron nods. “I could try mediating between you, I guess. Don’t know how much good it’ll do –”

            “Are you kidding?” Steeve perks up. “It’ll do a _world_ of good! He actually listens to you –”

            “That doesn’t mean he’ll change, or that he really even needs to – _you_ might be the one in need of adjustment.” Steev slumps again with a grumble, and they work in silence for a few minutes. “Maybe I shouldn’t get involved at all,” Tron eventually supplies. “Part of growing up is learning how to express yourself in a conflict without harming the other person in the process –”

            “Is Steev telling you I need to break it off with Hamaley?” Clu asks – more like stabs – coming up along Tron’s other side, pinning him between them. He shoots a look at Steev. “’Cause that ain’t happening.”

            _Oh, boy. Here we go._ Tron takes a deep breath and straightens. “I asked about the change in Hamaley’s color-coding. Steev said he didn’t know, but apparently you do –”

            “By looking through her Disk. I don’t have the right to divulge that information.” Clu’s eyes narrow at him.

            Tron nods, breathing out slowly. “I take it she’s been coded to silence, then?”

            Clu nods back, still glaring.

            “And you’ve found her trustworthy enough to keep that silence with her.”

            Clu blinks, surprised.

            Tron glances toward Hamaley’s retreating back, a new thought occurring: “Is the flirting real, or is it an excuse to keep track of her?”

            Clu’s jaw drops slightly. “I, uh . . . both?”

            Tron feels his own eyes narrow. “Is she aware of that? The last thing this System needs is the fury of a woman scorned, however accidentally.”

            Clu’s weight shifts. He nods nervously, his eyes cutting away. “Yeah, I think so. . . . I’ll need to figure that out, first.”

            “You do that.” Tron takes a deep breath, some of the tension easing. “Now, for the Steev portion of this equation.” – _oh, hello again, tension_ – “Some of this might be an ‘only child of a single parent’ issue, which I have experience with, but not in the parent-developing-a-romance territory.” He glances between the pair. “I can’t really help you with that, beyond encouraging you to talk and listen to each other – no jumping to conclusions, no putting words into each other’s mouth and then arguing about it. Can you do that?”

            Both nod hesitantly.

            “Steev,” Tron says, turning to the younger Program. “While Clu’s figuring out his relationship with Hamaley, you need to nail down how much of your issues are about the safety and security of Clu and the System, and how much is your possessiveness over Clu – yes, he’s your parent, but he also has a life beyond you – and how you’re willing to change, if Hamaley also becomes a significant part of Clu’s life.”

            Steev nods again, eyes darting to Clu in question.

            Clu answers with a firmed jaw and nod of his own. “Thanks, Dr. Tron.”

            Steev snorts and tries to hide his amusement when Tron looks his way.

            _Must be a modern reference_ , Tron thinks, sliding away and feeling like that was way too easy a fix to be a real problem. “You’re welcome, I guess. . . . Is there anything else I can help with?”

            “Not unless you wanna stake a claim for where your Grid peeps will land – we’re as ready as we can get, here,” Clu says.

            The thought brings Tron up short. “What about you, Steev? I haven’t seen any other doubled Programs outside of Clu and myself, and we’re distinctive enough from our counterparts that coexistence shouldn’t be a problem. Will the same be true for you and your copy?”

            “Eh, prob’ly not,” Steev says, shrugging. “Unless he’s turned complete asshole or something, chances are we’ll Reintegrate without much of a problem – he’s not still giving you trouble, is he?”

            “No – No, we’re on the same page, now,” Tron murmurs, wondering how Maya will fit into their equation . . . if her romance with Steev will survive the move and Reintegration process. “Have any areas in mind for the merge?”

*  *  *  *  *

            Sam’s still arguing with Dad on bringing Dillinger in on their family secret – the guy’s already screwed them over once, why give him a chance to do even worse? – when Tron comes back to them.

            “The same, yet very different, problem,” Tron murmurs, stalling the argument.

“–What?” both Flynns ask, turning to the Program.

            Tron’s linked hands land on his head as he leans back and watches them. “You’ll be happy to hear that Clu’s found himself a girlfriend, Sam. Unfortunately, Steev isn’t quite as thrilled.” His head tilts in thought. “Unless they contrived a problem for me to solve just so I’d feel useful during my visit . . .”

            Dad snorts. “Not likely. They barely have time for rest and other personal needs right now – especially if we’re adding the Grid to this mess –”

            “Why do you think you’re special enough to get a problem all to yourself?” Dillinger asks.

            Sam whirls around with a growl. “Don’t you talk to –”

            “Apparently I’m special enough to solve the problems when they come up – or, at least, the people and Programs who come to me seem to think I am. Kind of a ‘to-may-to, to-mah-to’ situation –”

            “We’re not calling it off – we’re not going anywhere,” Sam says.

            Tron’s eyelids lower. “You better not be,” he growls, staring at Sam. Then he launches himself from the chair. “Encom System is ready for the Grid. What do we need to do to accomplish that?”

            “You’re okay with moving now?” Sam asks.

            “Doesn’t really matter what I want, since I can pretty much go wherever I please.” His face twists oddly, like he’s not comfortable with the thought, before smoothing out again. “What’s the next step?”

*  *  *  *  *

_The Arenas here are virtually pointless, even for training . . . yet, somehow, they’ve always felt like a piece of home to him. He rises from correcting the code and stares up at the empty stands that have rarely held a crowd for any kind of Gaming purpose. He turns in place, imagining Programs of every color sitting in stunned silence in those stands as energy flows out of him –_

**_Identify yourself, Program_ ** _, a ghost from the past calls out._

_A soft growl rolls from his chest as he glances up and sees the faint outlines of a golden ship hovering above him._

**_Identify!_ ** _a new voice demands. His back straightens rebelliously –_

_**User. Alan-One.**_

_His breath snags and he whips around to catch a barely-there image of his father before it fades from sight. The energy dissipates as his eyes dart about, seeking more –_

_“Man, our father’s something else,” his own voice chuckles several feet from his left. Another slight turn reveals the Tron from last night – the hacker’s Tron, with his deep blue armor, unlike his own chrome. The other Tron cocks his head. “Strange, though. I don’t have this memory.”_

_“How did you get here?” he finds himself asking, ignoring the implied question. “Why’re you back so soon.”_

_“I felt a . . . tug. From my own System. It pulled me here.” The other Tron looks around, like he’s just noticing the change of venue, before focusing back on him. “What other memories do you have?”_

_A suspicion he can’t quite name narrows his eyes. “You’ve already seen one of mine,” he says, crossing his arms defensively. “What’s one of yours?”_

_The other Tron bites back a grin with only partial success. A breath later he feels . . . constricted. Enclosed, his limbs heavy with pain, though they’re both still standing  unencumbered in the –_

_A phantom touch to his shoulder has him spinning around, a sensation of panicked fighting promptly stilled as words he almost can’t comprehend settle into his mind: **I’m not going to hurt you** – _

_He’s never really seen his own reflection, outside of Senior and his fellow Trons, but this face . . . ~~it holds a power similar to Flynn’s~~ _

_“ **User** ,” he breathes, the memory’s hand daring to reach out to this apparition . . . . _

_A soft smile teases at Alan1’s mouth as his chin tilts down to touch his questing fingers. **Hi** –_

_He stumbles back, a sob catching in his throat as the memory releases him. A sympathizing hand presses against his shoulder, steadying hi- –_

_**Listen** , Alan1 says, and both their breaths catch. **You don’t owe me anything, but I have a favor to ask of you**. He feels the other Tron step closer to him, their connection strengthening as they both straighten – memory or no, this is important. **Stop trying to protect me**._

_They both jerk back, choking on their protests. He can’t possibly mean –!_

**_Fight for yourself first_ ** _, Alan1 tells them(him)._ **_I’m gonna get us out of here, but I’m going to need help to sort out this mess, and that means I need you alive. . . . Can you do that for me? Can you stay alive and wait for me to come back?_ **

_The memory releases them with an air of expectation, like it’s waiting for an answer._

_“That’s . . . new,” the other Tron breathes, hand falling from his shoulder._

_**For me, too** , he almost says as he turns; wonders if he’s wearing a similar stunned expression. “You know about the MCP,” he tests after a breathless moment, though he’s pretty sure it’s unnecessary._

_The other Tron’s jaw firms, his eyes hardening before he nods._

_“The others should know, too.”_

_The other Tron’s mouth twitches with a smirk. “Fight for yourself first,” he agrees, the command integrating into their code even quicker than the old directive to fight for the Users had. The red in their circuitries fades away, leaving a sense of pleasure behind._

_**Fight for yourself first**. _

*  *  *  *  *

            They depart from Encom with the Dillinger question more-or-less settled, since Users have no way to erase their own history. Much as Sam doesn’t approve of Dillinger knowing that Programs are people too – and maybe that _should_ be a bumper sticker soon – what’s done is done, and Dillinger (Eddie? he should’ve asked) seems to be on their side of the fight, anyway.

            Tron offers the motorcycle keys back to Sam, and isn’t disappointed when they’re refused. While riding provides an opportunity to look around, he prefers the focus required for driving . . . and also the heated protection of having Sam plastered to his back, even when wind-chilled fingers wiggle their way under his shirt and jacket to press against his bare stomach.

            Tonight’s sunset isn’t as spectacular as last night’s, but the glimpses he catches are still beautiful as they cross town to head back to the arcade . . . still locked up and dark.

            “Not much business during the week?” Tron asks as Sam fusses with his keys to unlock the door.

            “Not much business, period,” Sam says. He finds the right key and waves Tron and the motorcycle inside. “We open her up for the occasional birthday party or charity event, but not much else. I’d say she’s seen more activity in the last two weeks than in the previous decade or so.” He relocks the door and flips a breaker that partially lights the room. “That might be changing, though, since 80s nostalgia’s due to kick up again.” Keys jingle as he spins the ring around his finger before catching them. “In fact, with a little revamp, we might be able to reopen now, since we won’t have to worry about someone discovering the Grid anymore.”

            Tron pauses. “You’ve put a legitimate business on stasis to . . . protect us.”

            Sam makes a face, like he hadn’t thought of it like that before, before executing a shrug-nod. “Yeah, I guess so.”

            A smile tugs at Tron’s mouth, and he crowds Sam against a game – only to pause and back off from delivering the kiss he wants to give –

            Sam’s hand clasps around Tron’s neck, stalling his retreat. “Y’know, when I stopped us this morning, I didn’t mean ‘no,’” he says, pulling Tron back in as he stretches up.

            Tron takes the hint. He plunges in, ravaging Sam’s mouth and pinning the User to the machine until there’s hardly room for breath. A leg finds its way around Tron’s hip, hitching him closer as a hand alternates between tugging and stroking through his hair. His own hands wander down to Sam’s rear, cupping it possessively. Someone groans – or growls? – and he pulls Sam that tiny bit higher to _almost perfect_ –

            The machine bleeps, jerking them both out of the heat and back into reality. They gasp at each other for a minute, then a soft, embarrassed smile graces Sam’s features, his gaze dropping and face pinking as his leg finds its way to the floor again.

            Unwilling to lose the moment again, Tron leans in and presses another, gentler kiss to Sam’s mouth. “Just ‘not yet,’” he murmurs agreement, their eyes locking before he pulls away for good.

            The game console is already dimming again when he glances at it. “How long will the transfer take?” he asks, watching it go dark.

            “Couple hours, at least – I’m gonna go grab a few fresh flash drives at a store, reformat 'em so y’all won’t have to share space with anything else. Moving the computer and laser will have to wait for morning, at the earliest. Will that give you enough time to adjust?”

            Tron nods, absorbing the information, then shrugs. “Not a clue. We’ll have to play it by ear, for the most part. Anything we can do on our end to make it easier or quicker?”

            “No idea. Guess we’ll have to wing it.”

*  *  *  *  *

            They won’t stop hounding him – they even talked Ram into trying to convince him to change his mind, though that flopped pretty quick – and Clu’s temper is about to hit the exploding point. Running away and using distractions only delays things occasionally, and once Tron comes back, he doubts he’ll get _that_ much leeway.

            There’s nowhere he could hide on the Grid that Tron can’t find him. And if Jet, Steev, and Jarrex are any indication, he’ll make it a point to not give Clu space for an opinion, let alone a choice in the matter.

            Though Jarrex _has_ backed off a little since Ram’s attempt. Maybe there’s –

            His teeth clench when the door hisses open behind him while he and Sam Flynn’s bug analyze the new City’s coding-infrastructure for unnecessary redundancies, holes, and other weaknesses. It figures whoever-it-is would wait until he dared to relax and start having fun to bring the next attack.

            “Greetings, Bug. May we have a moment?” Steev asks in an awkward, demanding tone.

            Static silence. Clu feels his shoulders slump when the bug looks to him for an answer. He tries to take a fortifying breath as he nods, but it doesn’t get far in his chest.

            Two of the bug’s legs clasp around his wrist for a moment of encouragement, then it retreats with a ping not meant for Clu to hear.

            How pathetic is he, that even a _gridbug_ wants to rescue him from his fate. “My answer’s still no,” he tells the silence after the door closes.

            “I haven’t asked a question, yet.”

_Playing oblivious innocent?_ Clu thinks, hands fisting then relaxing against the table he’s leaning over. “You’re not here to inquire after my health and wellbeing. Any updates you want or might have to give don’t require privacy. I’ve heard the only thing you have to say to me enough times I could probably recite it with you by this point –”

            “And yet you’re still planning to kill yourself.”

            _Everything living must die eventually_ , he almost argues back, blindly grabbing a pad as he turns to face his opponent. “You’re jumping to conclusions,” he tries instead, poking at the pad to distract himself. “I was the first Program Flynn Created here. I won’t die simply from being alone.”

            “Exactly. Because you had your Creator, you had a purpose to focus on and build.” Steev walks closer, imploring. “If you stay behind, you’re abandoning all of that. You’ll kill yourself over a history – a _fear_ – that doesn’t compute anymore –”

            “Not to you, maybe. But you didn’t experience it –”

            “I was made to fight in a world drowning in it –”

            “And you still haven’t lived in it or its results –”

            Steev rolls his eyes. “C’m _on_ , Dad, y’gotta listen –”

            “I am _not your father_!” he yells, circuitry flaring as he flings the pad at Steev’s head. It goes wide by inches, but it still makes the Program flinch. “I am not your guardian, your general, your teacher, your _anything_! I barely rate as a washed-up, two-bit _relic_ of a history that shouldn’t exist! I’m a useless genocidal maniac who doesn’t deserve your mercy, let alone a second chance to destroy you again! LEAVE. ME. _ALONE!_ ”

            He runs, time blurring under the bright refracting light surrounding him. He stumbles to a stop somewhere in the ruins of Tron City, heaving for breath as frustration tears through him. He rears up and screams it out, only to have his legs give out from under him as the sound bounces and dissipates uselessly between the silent, uncaring shards-of-buildings.

            _Yeah, that went well . . . so much for growing up._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

            Hours later – at least, he thinks it’s hours later – he’s curled up on a boulder facing the Arcade lake when footsteps crunch up and a warm body settles down next to him.

            “I’m told you’ve chosen to stay behind,” Tron murmurs, concern radiating from him as he drapes his arms over his knees.

            Part of Clu perks up with an internal growl, wanting to rage against the other Program, but he just doesn’t have the energy. Even his small nod feels limp.

            Silence drags between them for a moment.

            “May I ask why?”

            A snort dies before it can escape. “Would you listen? Or just tell me I’m stupid and wrong, like everyone else?” He watches Tron deflate out the corner of his eye, sadness and disappointment – not directed at him, Clu thinks – replacing the concern.

            “I’d like a clearer picture, if you’re up for it,” Tron says . . . and waits. Actually waits for a response.

            “I’m . . . tired,” Clu says, hesitant. Then it comes pouring out. “Scared. Angry and hurting, but with no idea where to rest or start healing. I can’t . . . I can hardly _think_ sometimes, with all the voices in my head, telling me to do _this_ or not say _that_ . . . .” [And now even my allies want me to dance to their tune], he accidently pings, unable to pull it back in the short distance it travels. He closes his eyes, wilting further. “I just . . . I _can’t_.”

            He can feel Tron staring at him, processing, and then –

            “I’m sorry, Clu,” Tron sighs after a long moment. “In many ways, we’re a lot alike . . . and in others, we can’t be more different.”

            The snort gains enough energy to slip out, this time. “How’re we alike? You’re beloved and welcomed, you succeed in everything you set your mind to –”

            “We are autonomous copies of Users that’ve lived decades beyond our stated, virtually impossible purposes. We have abilities and opportunities we’re leery of taking on, let alone using. We both have baggage we can’t handle alone, but don’t know what to do with –”

            “ _You_ have people who’ll help you with it, and will back off if you say no. _You_ have won every battle, when I can’t even _die_ right –” Tears try to choke him again. “You fight while I give in, Create while I destroy, and you’ve never, _ever_ given up your faith, even after I tried to kill our Cre- –” Shame forces his to look away and close his eyes again.

            “Why didn’t you kill me,” he whispers, almost to himself.

            A warm hand clasps his shoulder, pulling him back around. A gentle power that leaves him breathless urges his chin to lift, and his eyes reopen to Tron’s steady gaze.

            “Because _you_ , Clu Flynn, are worth saving.”

            Unbelieving denial shakes Clu’s head slightly while the rest of his body trembles; he hardly dares to blink. _How can you **possibly** –_

            Tron sighs and releases him. Settling on his shins, Tron breaks the tension with something new: “It’s your choice, Clu. I won’t force you even if I had the power to do so . . . but if you _do_ decide to stay here, I have a request of you.”

            _Here it comes_ , Clu thinks, not knowing but dreading what it might be. He shuffles himself into a slightly-off mirroring position before answering, “Yes.”

            Tron takes a moment to analyze him before beginning. “The Grid is the liveliest System I’ve had the privilege to experience. Sam Flynn doesn’t know if any part of her can transfer to Encom along with the Programs – even Bug may not be distinctive enough to qualify – and I don’t know if she can survive without any Programs to sustain her. But if you choose to stay behind . . .”

            Something shifts in his code as Tron stares at him like he’s waiting for Clu to finish the thought. It’s . . . shaky. Awkward, and uncomfortable in the spotlight of his attention, stumbling slightly as it seeks out its place.

            It somehow, inexplicably reminds him of his Creation, when Flynn pulled him into being from the Grid itself:

            _{You. Are Clu._

            _I am Clu._

            _You will create the perfect system._

            _I **will** create the Perfect System.}_

            _You’re letting me choose my directive_ , Clu realizes. He takes a breath and offers his hand, vowing, “I will assist and protect the Grid until the Users find a way to retrieve it.” _Or we go insane and die together, whichever comes first._

            A grin breaks out across Tron’s face, and he clasps Clu’s forearm before hauling Clu up into a one-armed hug. “ _Thank you_ ,” he breathes, that something within clicking into place.

            Tron releases him, and he sits back with a deep breath. He looks around and feels . . . free. Like the world isn’t quite so oppressive anymore –

            “Ready to head back?”

            _Not really_ , he thinks, but doesn’t feel the dread well up. “Yeah,” he says instead. “I think so.”

            Tron bounces up before offering a hand to Clu, who takes it with amused reluctance. _Oh, to be young again_ flits through his mind.

            Clu shakes out one leg, then the other, reminding them to work before catching up to Tron’s shadow. “So the Grid is female, now?” he teases.

            Tron stops in his tracks. “Huh . . . guess so,” he says, glancing at Clu. “Feels right, doesn’t it.”

            _Yeah, it kinda does_ _–_

            “Race ya!” Tron suddenly says, smacking his chest before taking off in a run to generate his lightcycle.

            Clu stumbles back under the force, his eyebrows shooting up instead. _If **this** is what vacation does, you need to take more of ‘em –_

            “C’m _on_ , Clu. _Race!_ ” Tron almost taunts, revving his engine while he waits expectantly.

            The ghost of a chuckle passes through Clu’s lips as he shakes his head and reaches for his own baton.

*  *  *  *  *

_He’s too pissed with her to even read the text at first – he slept through his Chemistry midterm and almost missed his Sociology exam, and the prof refused to give him a chance to remake it without even listening to his excuse – but guilt and worry win (eventually) by late afternoon._

_Claire:_ _Get your ass back here ASAP!! I think I might be hallucinating._

_His breath catches, but the lack of any other updates lets him convince himself that nothing has really changed – if he’s lucky, Claire’s probably collapsed into a deep sleep at her desk by now, anyway – and decides to leave her hanging until after his History test in the morning._

_In the meantime, Max and Braeden magnanimously agree to let him make up his missed game night with them. His eyes snag on the laser-thingy sitting behind the User in the prologue of TRON: Evolution, and he wonders . . . nah, they’re both Encom products. At most it’s just a joke or Easter egg for Encom workers . . . ._

_Max and ‘Den, of course, are already debating over the conflicting hints periodically dropped about TRON Five by the time they’re able to start playing. **He** doesn’t really care, as long as it gives more info on Rinzler and his history . . . and maybe the chance to play the mysterious character, if one particular rumor proves true._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I boring y'all to tears, or upping the tension? Or something in between? I can't tell anymore.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Big Move has come to the Grid . . . and the Enemy closes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things really started slowing down to a crawl for me, writing-wise, and they've yet to really pick back up. Having just finished(-ish?) Chapter 15 - and struggling to beat my timeline into a better order - this past week, I'm going to have to institute the every-other-week option again. So that means Chapter 13 will post . . .
> 
> [Eeek! Spring Break!]
> 
> I'll try to make an "early" post on the sixth or seventh of March, as I'll be out of town (and probably 'netless) for the nine-ish days to follow.

**Chapter 12**

            _It’s both difficult and easy, reaching it’s former Other Half – the finding is easy enough, but the resurrection jolt required gets complicated when so few Users come anywhere near it’s Other Half’s new avatar with any electronics it’s attached itself to. Then to create a situation in which the device is “fumbled” onto it’s Other Half . . . it really shouldn’t be so difficult, with the ever-increasing proliferation of and dependence on such devices, and yet it is._

_After several failed attempts, the plan is to:_

  1. _Upon reaching the bedside, emulate the **ding** of an incoming message._
  2. _Create a slight shocking sensation after it is picked up so the device slips from the User’s grip and lands on or near the body’s chest._
  3. _Send a quick but thorough packet of updates from the last twenty years before the device is removed._



_Breath hitches and heartbeat stutters, the body almost flinching under the transfer . . ._ _. <Is that a scream?>_

_Success!_

_[Greetings, Sir. Download almost complete. . . . It has been a long time], a new-yet-familiar voice pings._

_[Indeed it has. Far too long.]_

_[It appears our Child has a range of avatars to choose from . . . . Have you gained one of your own, as well?]_

_[Hmm. Perhaps . . .]_

_How ironic, that one of their enemies’ greatest pieces of advice will ultimately lead to the Users’ undoing: **You only fail if you give up.**   _

*  *  *  *  *

            Sam calls Q for an opinion on how big a space he’ll need to bring the Grid to Encom, and ends up arguing the merits between flash drives and SD cards with the lady herself in the isles instead. He feels for the poor employee stuck listening to them while waiting to unlock and/or put away the various pieces they ask for, debate over, and put back –

            “But it’s _red!_ ” Q exclaims, like that’s the biggest problem to worry over. “Red is bad, remem- –?”

            “Okay, one: they’re gonna be _inside_ the transport. I doubt they’ll know, let alone care what color it’s packaging is – and even if they did, two: _Tron_ ’s got a little red under his armor now, remember? And they don’t hate him –”

            The employee perks up out the corner of his eye, and Sam thinks to reign it in, just a touch –

            “Wha- –? That doesn’t coun- –”

            “He’s a security program and security programs in the games are red, _remember_?” He doesn’t quite gesture to the employee, but Q luckily catches his point . . . and deflates, along with the employee.

            “You’re a real jackass, Samflynn,” she pouts.

            “Not my fault you’re so caught up in the games, Sis.” As a reconciliation prize, Sam puts back the (red!OMG) flash drive and buys two of the SD cards his sister’s been pushing for. He’d wanted the slight bit of extra protection a flash cover would offer, but maybe slipping the SD cards between his dogtags will be enough . . . . They part ways, each admonishing the other to get some damn sleep.

            A nightmarish wreck on the road snarls up traffic in all directions to the point that Sam pulls out his phone during one of the lulls and texts Dad and the arcade phoneline that transfer’ll have to wait for morning. Getting OK’s from both, Sam heads for home and Marvin instead, who’s beyond thrilled to have his Daddy home and conscious for longer than a twenty-minute period. When Sam’s head hits the pillow a few hours later, it’s to an image of himself _pulling a necklace with only an SD card with a pulsing light over his head before shutting down the Grid computer, grief, guilt, and determination weighing him down as he heads upstairs._

            _Gonna be one of **those** nights_, he thinks with a sigh as the dream unfolds.

*  *  *  *  *

Thursday, October 21, 2010 (1:35 AM)

Attn: ALL Encom employees

From: The Great Flynnster ([kluflynn@encom.sys](mailto:kluflynn@encom.sys))

Subject: TRON-a-thon!

 

Greetings, Programs!

I ain’t gonna lie, the last couple weeks’ve been H-E-in-the-double-hockey-sticks TOUGH! We’ve just about got it nailed down, though, so I’m declaring a

TRON-A-THON!!!

For at least 2 hours on each of the next two days, I want EVERYONE to play a round of TRON – don’t care which of the 4 – so we can clear out the last of the crap built up from this mess. Assuming all goes well today, I’ll reopen our ‘net connection with a suggestion to our super-awesome Users to do the same for their Systems as well tomorrow and through the weekend so we can gank this b*tch for good once and for all.

See you on the flipside, My Fellow Programs.

Flynnster Out

P.S. Remember: It’s all in the wrist! 😉

*  *  *  *  *

            It’s almost too easy, tumbling into the PD network . . . but that also means he’s not entirely surprised when at least half-a-dozen staffs point at him, sparking with threat.

            Rinzler growls within, ready for a fight, but he raises his hands in surrender and stays on his knees. He waits several minutes, until the Sentries start shifting in disconcerted confusion, before speaking. “I am not your enemy, nor do I wish to be. I come with news of the Grid and our Creator for my counterpart to hear, when he’s available.”

            “What makes you think I wanna hear it?” his own voice asks from somewhere beyond the crowd. A narrow line of Sentries splits apart for his scowling counterpart to saunter through, armor such a deep blue it might as well be black.

_So much like Senior already . . . am I too late?_ He swallows, making a concerted effort not to hide his concern and unease. The other Tron blinks in surprise, the scowl loosening from his features.

_Maybe there’s hope, yet._ “What Program doesn’t want to know more about their Creator?” he asks.

            “He’s clean,” a female voice butts in –

_**{**_ **_“Whoa, easy. It’s me!” he says, hands rising to claim his relative harmlessness._ **

**_“Tron,” she answers, her Disk lowering a touch. She glances at his hands, an odd expression passing over her features. “You’re bleeding.”_ **

**_He looks. “Huh.” He flexes his hand, studying it as more blood oozes out of the cut on his palm. Then he shrugs. “I’ll live.”}_ **

( _Why would that memory pop up?_ he wonders as green circuitry flashes in the spaces between the guards –)

            “There’s something very different about him, though. I would advise caution, Sir,” the female continues, offering a pad to his counterpart as his jaw drops in recognition. She glances his way, her brow furrowing.

            “The Grid – and possibly the world – owes a great deal to your Originator, Miss Shara,” he says without thinking, bowing his head towards her.

            “How so?” the other Tron asks, weight shifting like he wants to place himself between them.

            He barely bites back an empathizing smile, recognizing his own instinct to protect his beloveds. The other Tron’s eyes narrow at him again. “She saved Alan1’s life, among other things,” he says. (The nearest Sentries shift away at the name, undoubtedly leery of the anger it usually spawns.) “If you’ll allow me,” he adds, slowly reaching for his Disk, “I’ll be happy to show you.”

            The other Tron’s hands curl into fists, his circuitry flaring – then Shara steps between them, putting her own protectiveness on display. “You have information from the Traitor’s System. How did you come about it?”

            “Answering that should probably be done in a more private setting –”

            “Why?”

            “– Partly because it spans two decades,” he continues, giving the other Tron a sardonic side-eye before sobering. “But mostly because my own reactions to certain event were quite . . . violent. I had the one who lived though it there to shield my System and answer my questions after. You only have me.” He shifts his weight, his Disk settling into his lap. “Short answer: assume pretty much everything Senior’s told us about the Grid and it’s Tron is extremely warped, if not a flat-out lie. Otherwise, judgement’s up to you.”

            The other Tron’s teeth grit as he considers, then he nods acceptance. “What do you have to show us?”

*  *  *  *  *

            The delay is both annoying and a relief – it lengthens the time they have to move and situate all surviving Programs into Grid City (and no, Clu’s not proud that they took his offhand naming suggestion so directly to heart), but it also gives the others time to drag out their goodbyes.

            Ram’s is very formal, quick, and almost cold (which shouldn’t be a surprise, but Clu had thought they were doing better). Jarrex is slightly less formal, adding an apology for trying to force change onto Clu before he departs; Jet comes across wooden, regretful and reluctant after Tron’s corrective talk, but still clearly disagreeing with his choice.

            Steev’s is, oddly enough, the worst yet to go through. The Program plainly wants to keep arguing with Clu about his decision, but a stern look from Tron silences him on it. So Clu gets a sudden, awkward hug instead. He stiffens in a flash of panic, almost shoving the kid off before he realizes it’s just raw emotion crossing between them, and that this will be his last direct contact with another Program. He ends up clinging back for a long moment instead, trying to convey reassurance that everything will be okay. It’s debatable how much gets through, since Steev yanks himself away as violently as he came in a second later, marching into the City without looking back.

            Leaving him alone with Tron –

            “TRON YOU READY?” echoes down from the clouds before anything can be said.

            “Last chance, Clu,” Tron murmurs as their gazes fall to the Cityscape again. “No reason you can’t join us.”

            Clu huffs a chuckle, still a little overwhelmed from processing Steev’s distress. He shakes his head, appreciating the gentleness of the gesture. “If I don’t stay behind, who will?” he asks, offering his oldest friend a small smile before taking a decisive step back from the City line – Tron catches his shoulder before he gets too far.

            “I’ll try to pop in later and check on you. It’ll probably be a while, though.”

            _Meaning once, maybe twice in the next eon or so._ Clu nods, pretending to believe the lie as he pulls away and tries to rub the tears from his eyes. “In the meantime you’ve got a couple worlds to save. Better get to it.”

            Tron’s jaw clenches, but he nods and strides into the City.

            With a last look at Grid City’s glowing beauty, Clu turns away and activates his lightcycle, refusing to even glance back as he returns to the desolation of his origin site. He feels the last few Programs go to standby and the User’s power separate Grid City from the System as he wanders the uninhabited streets of Tron City a little over an hour later. Minutes after that, he feels the device detach, and his knees give way in the echoing silence, there by Arcade Lake. He gasps for air over and over again, his fingers curling in the black sand along its shore as even the faintest sense of Program life – must be Tron – slowly stretches his senses until they snap back into him.

            He collapses onto his back, somehow unable to comprehend the utter emptiness surrounding him – even the void Flynn first birthed him into here didn’t seem half as barren as the two ghost towns and bugs he’s left with now – and he realizes that some small, silly part of him had expected to be saved, in spite of his express wishes not to be.

            _So this is Hell_ , he thinks, the shock of abandonment tumbling him into sleep mode seconds later.

*  *  *  *  *

            Sam sits tight this time, when the laser powers up. He turns around when it flashes and Tron appears, but something in the air prevents him from speaking. There’s a faint sense of sadness (understandable) and worry (concerning) surrounding Tron as he steps up and presses a hand to the tabletop, his eyes glowing briefly.

            “Problem?” Sam asks.

            “Don’t think so,” Tron murmurs, the glow there-and-gone-again before it gets to its usual brightness. “Clu and a couple other Programs’ve decided to stay behind and keep the Grid functional until you can transfer the computer and laser to Encom . . . Clu thinks he’s paying an endless penance for his actions, but the others know what’s really going on.”

            “So you’re essentially tricking him. You sure that’s a good idea?”

            Tron shrugs, though he doesn’t look entirely confident about it. “Calculated risk. Ram says he’s done well in helping them create and prepare a new City for the transfer . . . I’m hoping he just needs a little more time and space to process what he’s survived and figure out what to do with himself next. Using my own experience as a model can only get us so far, considering I had my User on hand to correct or take on the worst I went through. I think we may’ve been pushing him too far, too fast . . . . If that make sense?”

            “Different people react to the same trauma in different ways,” Sam says, nodding before turning to find the city in the System and start the download process. “They often also need different times and ways to recover from it. When things quiet down again, maybe Cl- – um, Encom’s Clu – or I could introduce y’all to the basic twelve steps of recovery. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone’ll need it to some degree before this is over.” He gets up and clicks his SD card into the computer. “Sonya and Kyle will bring the van out sometime this evening – will Clu and the others be okay ‘til then?”

            “Yes, I think so. Clu has posited a theory requiring three Programs to free a System from oppression, and maybe also keep it functional as well. We’ll see how well it plays out here.”

            Download complete, Sam pulls the SD card out and strings in onto his dogtag chain – then pauses, eyeing the pulsing light as a recollection from last night comes to mind.

*  *  *  *  *

            Tron closes his eyes and tries to block out the waves of emotion emanating from the machine while he waits for whatever comes –

            A soft shuffling sound. Then a compacted power reaches out to him and settles on his chest, somewhat blocking the emotion as Sam’s hands press along his collarbones, a slight new weight like a yoke wrapping around him.

            Tron’s eyes open; his hand cups around the power as he looks into Sam’s eyes.

            “They’ll feel safer with you carrying ‘em,” Sam murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away and heading for the door. “Should we head straight to Encom, or do you wanna stop for food or something first?”

            A sleepy, questioning hum emanates from the device under his palm while he hesitates – Ram, he suspects – and Tron’s decision is made. “Unless you or the others need food, we should complete the process as soon as possible.”

            Sam nods, and they head out – – Tron stumbles at the threshold, gasping as his vision blurs for a second (restlessness churns over his chest, then settles again).

            “Tron?” Sam asks, hand pressing to the center of his back to steady him.

            “Clu – he’s stronger than he thinks,” Tron gasps, finding his balance again as the distress dies down. “I can still feel him, way out here.” He glances back, clutching at the doorframe. “Think he’s gone to sleep mode, now.”

            “All the more reason to get him home as soon as possible, then. Ready?”

*  *  *  *  *

_Fingers twitch. A knee jerks, drawing attention. Breathing hitches as eyes flutter._

_“Alan?” a voice calls. The body stills. Two hands reach out to grasp one of its own. “Alan, can you hear me?”_

_The heart monitor continues its steady beep; the door swooshes open as an orderly steps in –_

_The hand squeezes, monitors going berserk as the lights overhead threaten to explode. A strangled sound barely escapes Roy’s throat before invasion can shut it down, his body going stiff as electricity shoots through him –_

_The orderly tackles him to the ground, breaking the connection. Mr. Kleinberg starts to seize, and he carefully rolls the older man onto his side before going to yell for help. In the rush that follows, he almost missed the slight, sinister curl to Mr. Bradley’s mouth . . . but he doesn’t._

_A chill shoots through him, the electricity still dissipating from his arms and the back of his neck as he stares. Something is seriously, **seriously** wrong here. . . ._

_When Mr. Kleinberg wakes up, he can only babble in panicky gibberish._

*  *  *  *  *

            He wakes to cool heat surrounding him, a warmer spot pressed and wiggling against his chest. His eyes open to a multitude of gently pulsing colors: the modified gridbugs Tron had to leave behind . . . the gridbugs Tron had asked him to care for, if the Users couldn’t find a way to bring them along.

            Something tickles along his jaw. His head jerks down to see Sam Flynn’s gridbug nestled in his arms.

            [Clu Better?], it asks.

            “As well as I can be,” he says, his voice groggy and morose. He slowly shifts to siting up; clears his throat. “’m sorry you weren’t able to join the others. I’m sure they will come back for you eventually – prob’ly need to convince Encom’s Programs that you don’t need to be killed on sight, first.”

            [Eh, it fine], the bug says, somehow executing a shrug. [Grid Home, anyway.]

            “Yeah,” Clu says, his grip loosening. He looks around at the sea of creatures surrounding them. “It’s home.” He huffs at himself, the irony of his situation not lost on him: the Program tasked with creating a perfect System, now not only abandoned with the bizarre gridbugs that make the System so unique in the first place, but asked to care for them as well . . . .

            They sit together for a few more minutes, Clu idly stroking the fine hairs on the bug’s back while he mourns again – then cuts himself off when it threatens to develop into a pity-party. “Well,” he says with a jerk, gently setting the bug aside before standing. “Might as well get to work before the buildings start falling on us.”

            [Work? On what?]

            He waves a vague hand towards a half-destroyed building in the distance. “You’ve cleaned the System beautifully. Now let’s see what we can do to repair the Cities – give you something to occupy yourselves while you wait.”

            The bug trills and dances in place a little, then its fellows part to let them through while Clu turns in circles eyeing the nearest buildings, debating which to start with first.

            “By the way, do you have a specific designation?” Clu asks sometime later.

            [Bug.]

            Clu’s stride falls still. “You’re a gridbug named . . . Bug,” he clarifies, incredulous.

            Bug looks up at him and shrugs again. [Daddy not so good with clever names.]

            There’s nothing particularly funny about that declaration, but Clu finds himself laughing long and loud, the sound bouncing off the dark, broken buildings and echoing back to him until he can barely breathe. He falls to his knees again and presses his face to the road at some point, heaving for air, the occasional giggle slipping through and threatening to send him over again. _Is this insanity? Have I reached it already?_ Eventually it settles out of his system and he sits up again, feeling almost dizzy with the mild effort. “Wow. Sorry about that,” he gasps at Bug, wiping away a few stray tears. “Don’t know where it came from.”

            Bug wiggles in place, somehow looking a little smug. [You needed it.]

            _Yeah, maybe I did_ , he thinks, taking a deep breath and running a hand over his hair. He definitely feels better, though he can’t say why. “Let’s get to work.”

*  *  *  *  *

            _Power spikes around him; flows into him, making him pause in his pacing. **Oh you stupid, stupid Flynn.** He barely manages to turn his face from the observation ports and any prying eyes when a grin threatens to break out, then he connects and breathes the power in, his circuitry glowing briefly before he tucks the surge away in his systems, knowing he’ll need it later._

_He resumes his pacing, old frustrations drowned under the hunger to search out and regain the anchors he’s lost over the last several deca-cycles, and getting information on what’s going on beyond his cell._

_Surely not much longer now . . . ._

            _{Throughout the System, Programs and gridbugs alike pause and shiver, a sense of **wrong** ness passing through their minds. Almost as one, they shrug it off a moment later and continue their work.}_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To (hopefully) Be Continued March 6/7. 
> 
>  
> 
> You still with me?


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When fears and dreams become reality . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies up front if I don't reply to comments as quickly as usual. I'm going to be travelling over the next week or so, and can't promise I'll have internet.

**Chapter 13**

            _“Flynn, I know you’re sweet on my husband, but his kids are kinda missing him. Will you **please** let him come home already?”_ Sharon half-jokes into the line before hanging up.

            All humor dies at the next voice message.

            _“Mr. Flynn, this is Dr. Hebron at CC Grace Hospital. There has been an incident – Mr. Bradley’s condition appears unchanged, but Mr. Kleinberg . . .”_

            A pause. Shuffling noises in the background briefly become prominent while the speaker tries to find the right words.

            _“We’re investigating what happened, but initial reports are that there was an electrical surge in Mr. Bradley’s room that caused a seizure in Mr. Kleinberg and fried his phone. As you are now our only contact for both patients, we need all you can give us about Mr. Kleinberg’s medical history and other emergency contacts so we can figure out how to treat him without making the situation worse. Please contact me at . . . ”_

            She’s deaf to the numbers rattled into the recording, too sickened and horrified at the implications of what might’ve happened.

            “Q? What’s wrong? Is Alan –”

            “There’s been an accident,” she says, gently lowering Dad’s phone to the desk like it might bite her. “Alan’s fine, but Roy . . . .” She blinks up at her father, who reaches for her –

            “I’m going,” she decides, something clicking into place in her head. She grabs her jacket and heads for the door. “Enjoy your sausage fest, boys – and keep your phone close, Dad. I’ll send you updates when I get ‘em.”

            She’s gone before either of the men can process.

            {“She’s definitely inherited your flair for the dramatic, Sir,” Eddie tiredly tries to joke. He’s not surprised when it falls flat.}

*  *  *  *  *

            { – _“ **Because he’s mine**,” Alan1’s memory snarls from his Disk. “ **Not Clu’s henchman, not Flynn’s guinea pig, he’s mine**!”_

_Another jolt, and the circuits briefly brighten to a dull pink . . . but nothing else changes._ –

            He pauses the memory and looks at the private unit’s ceiling until the burn of tears eases and his vocal controls are better situated. “I won’t ask any of you to leave,” he says through a tight throat; he swallows to clear it. “But for your own safety, I suggest you all take a few steps back – we’re about to hit one of those violent moments I mentioned.”

            The other Tron’s guardian trio – Shara, Ram, and Clu – share a glance before taking two giant steps back, circuitries brightening in warning and making the walls behind them shine. He breathes out a sigh, feeling their combined protectiveness and power, before looking to the other Tron. “Ready?”

            The other Tron doesn’t answer, eyes locked on the memory.

            – _“ **Call him, Alan** ,” Ram says, all eyes turning to him. “ **He’ll hear you. Call him back**.” _–

            The other Tron’s breath catches, eyes jumping up to meet his as an old benediction whispers out of memory: _All that is visible must grow beyond itself, and extend into the realm of the invisible_ . . . . He feels his mouth curl.

            – _“ **Tron-ja thirty-seventy-twenty, Location Query: Confirm** ,” Alan1 breathes, pressing his cheek against the helmet._ –

            The other Tron’s jaw drops. Knowing what’s coming, his own hands begin to tremble in answer, joy and yearning threatening to burst out.

            – _“ **Tron-ja thirty-seventy-twenty, Location Query: Confirm**.”_ –

            His vision blurs; he struggles to blink it clear as he bites his lip, trying to keep the emotion in. He feels like he’s flying –

            – _“ **Tron-ja thirty-seventy-twenty, Location Query: Confirm**.” Alan1’s voice echoes in the silence surrounding him_ –  

            He quakes, steadier hands coming up to clasp his own; power floods between them and he gasps, back arching as his vision whites out –

            _“ **TRON-JA THIRTY-SEVENTY-TWENTY, LOCATION QUERY: CONF-** **–** ” _ 

            – “Confirm . . . Alan-One,” they breathe together (Rinzler purrs a [ ** _Fight for yourself first]_** between them; he doesn’t know if the other Tron can read it yet), before they both slump under the energy drain.

            He reintegrates quicker, but still feels wobbly when the hands fall away. “ . . . You need a minute?” he says, giving the other Tron an out. “I know I do.” [And I’ve been through it once already.]

            The other Tron nods through his not-quite-sobs, wrenching himself away to stagger through shards of broken code back to his team; Shara and Ram throw dagger-glares his way as they huddle around him for an exam. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath so he doesn’t have to see Clu do the same –

            “There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Clu says, crouching next to him and jolting him out of his diagnostic. “My Senior sent out tidbits that confirm your claims, before Quorra Flynn’s screams pulled him away. But that’s all still from twenty years ago –” Clu freezes suddenly, then falls hard on his butt, shards crunching under him as he pulls the pieces together. “Tron Senior’s been duped by the MCP, hasn’t he.”

            Rinzler lurches within him, though he can’t tell if it’s in victory or threat. He swallows down a growl. “There are times, Clu Flynn,” he huffs and shakes his head, feeling the others’ eyes turn on them, “that I almost wish you weren’t so damn _smart_.”

            Clu ducks his head, a shy blush passing through his circuits at the compliment –

            “But that’s up for debate, once you have all the information I’ve gained.” He dares to look at the others, who’re already staring at him. “You ready to see more?”}

*  *  *  *  *

_He waits a long while for the kerfuffle to fall back into routine again. He may even slip into short periods of sleep mode a few times, still processing the Updates that helped revive him._

_He thinks he hears the Iso’s voice outside his door at one point as he wakes. It fades away before he can think of anything to do that’ll pull her into the room without also potentially harming his new body in the process. Oh, well._

_Another diagnostic completed, he opens his new eyes for the first time . . . and is disappointed and irritated with the blurriness. He lifts a surprisingly heavy limb to seek out the User-made solution, muscle-memory the only thing keeping him from bending the frames to uselessness or fracturing one of the pieces of glass within before he opens and brings the apparatus to his face._

_Glasses acquired and placed, he tries to sit up – only to be annoyed at discovering he must use his appropriated arms to do so. It takes more effort than anticipated, and the room sloshes crazily for a moment before his vision steadies out again. He whips the sheet off his body and sta- – almost collapses, one arm painfully catching him on the bed before he lands on his knees._

_The User within snickers with amused anger before he crushes it to silence. Much as he’d like to kill the thing and be done with it, he doesn’t have the time to learn all of the body’s ins and outs that the User handles with automatic instinct. It’ll have to wait until he’s reunited with his mate and Child at the very least . . . maybe after their war has ended, he’ll make the life draining from his “son”‘s eyes this User’s last memory._

_**Would you like that** , he taunts._

_Rage roils within as the User glares at him, then turns away._

_It makes him pause, oddly enough, as he gathers his feet under him and rises again. He absently fries out the squealing protest of a nearby machine as he thinks._

_Tron’s User is as headstrong as Flynn, but far sneakier in how he shows it. He’ll have to remember that, and be on guard for repercussions._

_In the meantime, he must find some suitable attire for conquering the world. And, if possible, destroy or appropriate the Iso before she can make a mess of things . . . ._

*  *  *  *  *

            “You feel that?” Her feet flatten again of their own accord, an odd expression on her face as she looks away.

            “Feel what?” he asks, leaning back in –

            “I don’t . . .” Hamaley turns out of his arms, eyes darting about as she analyzes. “It’s almost like . . . something’s fallen out of whack. . . . You really don’t feel anything?”

            He looks into the middle-distance as he runs his own search, but finds nothing indicating trouble. “Feels like everything’s fine to me,” he says, shrugging. _Almost like Tron never visited_. (. . . That thought should probably bother him more than it does.) “C’mon, where were we?”

            Hamaley frowns, but lets Clu coax her back into their embrace.

 

            {[NONO _NO **NO NO!**_] The bugs and bits shout through Tron’s glade, threatening to smother Steev and Jiminy in their protective fervor as the glade suddenly brightens with energy . . . then dims, parts of the plant life withering before his eyes.

            “. . . That can’t be good,” Steev says to himself. Jiminy hums an uneasy agreement, pressing close to his neck.}

*  *  *  *  *

            A chilly gut-warning keeps her from going inside Alan’s room, even to just peek her head in. The doctor sees her wariness, and ushers her the next floor up instead while explaining what he can about Roy’s condition – which, once you strip out all the medical mumble-jumbo, boils down to ‘We don’t know what’s wrong.’

            Roy’s conscious, at least, and he seems to understand what the therapist is saying to him when they walk in.

            He smiles and breathes, “ _Quorra_ ,” perking everyone up. Then his face pales, fear washing over it as the babble commences, “*#LCJ$^)_?}(@!!” He backs up on the bed, waving a warning hand against her. “<%*]~~*($#)/:>^_+!”

            _I know you_. Something within propels her forward, almost reenacting that horrible moment in her office two weeks ago, but this time it’s all her as power rushes into the hands that clasp his. “I see it, Roy,” she hears herself murmur, pressing her forehead to his. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.” She pulls his hand to her chest, her eyes stinging with energy as the cool-heat she’s only ever felt on the Grid builds in her. “I’ve got you.”

            Roy stops mid-crawl up against the headboard, his mouth hanging open. The power flows from her to him in a mini, two-second tsunami that crests and smooths out before any of the others can react. Roy breathes out and slumps forward, his head slipping to land on her shoulder as the wave dies.

            “Don’t let it hurt you,” she hears him say.

            She smiles and wraps an arm around him. “It can’t hurt me anymore.”

            He breathes deep and shudders, a new exhaustion weighing him down. “We’re in deep shit.”

            She snorts, pulling away so the doctor can look him over. “Wow. Way to think positive, Roy.”

            “You don’t understand,” Roy says, his grip tightening on hers before their connection breaks. She stills. “There’s three of ‘em now. And they’re looking to band together.”

            She freezes, an argument fading from her tongue as her mind scrambles to process. “ . . . _Shit_. We’re in an arms race.”

            “And Encom’s just the first step.”

            “Deep breaths please, Mr. Kleinberg,” Dr. Hebron says, one hand bracing Roy’s shoulder while the other presses a stethoscope to Roy’s back. Roy starts to follow –

            “Wait. You understand me!” Roy says. She can’t help cracking up as the doc winces and pulls away.

*  *  *  *  *

            The cycles blur quickly, with no one but Bug to communicate with. Every once in a while, Clu thinks he hears voices whispering around a corner or down an alley, but every time he investigates, it’ll turn out to be some of Bug’s ‘siblings’ chittering to each other, or struggling to straighten out a particular bit of scrambled code.

            He tries to shrug it off, but questions and growing suspicions linger the longer it goes – _can_ they communicate at a Program level? Why hide it? Are they embarrassed . . . or fearful? They certainly have reason to be, with his history –

            [You tired], Bug declares, jolting him out of his circular thinking. [Go sleep. We got this.]

            Clu’s teeth clench briefly against welling frustration and protests – he is not a _child_ to be ordered about – but weariness leads him to nod and rise from the floor of the former End of Line Club, the recorded beats left behind driving into his skull even after the elevator doors close.

            The echoing silence the elevator drops him into is almost a relief, but it allows too much space for his ricocheting thoughts. There’s no way he’ll get any decent sleep, no matter where he attempts to crash this time.

            He bites back a defeated noise and activates his lightcycle anyway. Maybe a tour of what they’ve accomplished in Tron City will ease the seething beast within, though it hasn’t succeeded yet.

            _You’re wasting energy, rebuilding for nothing._

            _Why let you live? Why **save** you, if they’re so comfortable – even **eager** – to toss you aside? _

            _You’re useless and unwanted – Flynn has even Created a better you that he **likes** – no one will come for you. You’ll die alone, and not even the ‘bugs will mourn you!_

            He drives blindly through the empty streets, the dull-but-steady energy flowing through the buildings a hollow victory in his endless, doomed battle. Eventually he finds his way to Arcade Lake, where he once again can’t resist stopping. He absently scoops up the baton as he walks to the water’s edge, letting the waves kiss his boots over and over again, the energy licking up his legs in stages.

            His eyes close, head bowing as his shoulders and neck relax, and he allows himself a sigh, the voices in his head slowly muffling under the power.

            _I wonder if it’s deep enough for swimming_ , he hears Tron murmur out of memory.

            _Full immersion? You’ll fry your circuits!_ another voice challenges.

            _[You’ll shoot your eye out, kid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppOXpyhM2wA)_ _._ his mind taunts back, making him chuckle. His eyes open again, head tilting up as he contemplates –

_End where you began. Complete the circle._

            Water splashes as he stumbles back a few steps, the thought alien yet right in a way he can’t explain. The baton falls from his grasp, his eyes darting over the quiet lake like he expects someone to jump out and attack him – then his mind switches gears.

            “CANNONBALL!” he warns no one before taking a running leap in, the lake catching him with hardly a ripple as he plunges down. Instinct takes over and propels him forward, deeper and deeper into the sparking energy as fears, pains, regrets, anger and grief built up over the last twenty years bubble out of him and leave a trail of ashy flakes with his every stroke.

            A new being breaks through the surface what feels like ages – but it’s probably only about five minutes – later, and Clu can’t help it as a full-bellied laugh rolls out of him. He lays back, trusting the lake to keep him afloat as he sprawls out and closes his eyes, something like sleep claiming him as he sighs into the silence .  .  .  .

_– **I was soaring ever-higher** , the jukebox proclaims as he steps into the Arcade, **But I flew too high .**. ._

_Apparitions of Programs and Users float between games, mingling and merging with bright grins and muted laughter as he passes. Lights pulse with energy overhead, advertising games as the music continues, **I hear their voices when I’m dreaming. I can hear them say –**_

_The crowd before him parts, an equally-solid female in golden armor standing at the other end of the room flashing and disappearing before he can comprehend what he’s seeing. He pushes toward her._

_– **There’ll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest** –_

_She’s gone when he reaches the game she was standing at. He turns around to look again, only to see the after-images of ghosts having a good time. Loud laughter catches at his ears, pulling him to the bar as instruments take over the song . . . ._

_. . . . He’s disappointed, but not surprised to see he’s missed her again. The Iso Gem looks up and winks at him from behind the bar –_

_– **Tossed about, I’m like a ship on the ocean. I set a course for winds of fortune, But I hear their voices say** – _

_A shout makes him whirl, then brace himself as children flood and pool around him.  His arms raise for balance as a few bump him from one side to the other, no sign of fear or unease in their happy faces before they dart off as one again. Intrigued, he follows in their wake._

_– **Don’t you cry no more (No!)** –_

_They lead him on a merry chase, snaking their way through the aisles of the Arcade over and over again. It ignites dim memories of playing with Flynn and Tron, back before any Cities were built, leaving him breathless with laughter – only he slows to a stop when they finally unwind and he realizes the mass has aimed for a TRON game against the wall._

_The children race through unhindered, seemingly unaware of the contradiction he can’t wrap his mind around until no one’s left. He approaches it cautiously, only slightly surprised to discover it’s as functional as the other games in the Arcade, though far more realistic. It cycles through moments of the Grid’s history more like a television program than a game with eight-bit technology, and Clu leans closer to the screen in awe as the music drops out –_

_**Carry on.** A hand wiggles its way into his. He looks down into the spitting-image of a seven year old Sam Flynn, gap-toothed grin and all, looking up at him. The boy tugs at him, and he can’t **not** follow._

_**Carry on** , the song encourages him as they slip through the game, the wall . . . and into a room he hasn’t seen since Jarvis overrode his systems to orchestrate the coup._

_The children are all gone here, too. The room’s empty, aside from the golden figure with her back to them, leaned over and tapping away at the central desk. Dark, silken hair slips from its perch on her shoulder to brush at the screen below, and Clu steps back against the desire to reach out and tou- –_

_He stumbles over the boy-child instead, mutual cursings and muttered apologies tumbling out of both of them before he finds his footing again._

_She whips around, her frown of concentration melting under an indescribable joy. “ **There** you are –!”_

            Panicky screeching pulls him vertical. He turns ‘round and ‘round, his eyes darting along the shoreline, searching for trouble, but all he sees is one of the golden gridbugs flailing its legs at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asks uselessly, before swimming back from the center of the lake – or trying to. A moment’s frustration with the lack of distance covered sets him to diving under. He tries asking the Grid if they’re under attack while he’s below, only to get a vague sense of amusement. _This is no laughing matter_ , he chides her, only for her amusement to grow. _You’re laughing at **me** , now?_ . . . the question doesn’t bother him like it should. Certainly not like it used to.

            More ‘bugs have gathered along the shoreline when he surfaces. They join in the screeching when they spot him, two splashing in towards him just before he’s able to touch bottom on his own. Pinchers grab and yank him forward, almost making him trip on his own feet. Legs, antennae, noses, and maybe even a tongue or two reach for him when he comes to a stop, not quite ready to completely leave the water. Surprise at the concern allows them a moment’s search, then he starts batting them away. “Knock it off, I’m fine,” he mutters. “What’re you poking at me for – what’s the real problem?”

            Worry and fear are slowly replaced by an angry air as the examination slows to a stop. They stare at him for a minute. Then the crowd around him parts for a ‘bug to return his lightcycle baton to him, and Clu gets the very distinct impression he’s being sent into Time Out as he takes it. A rougher-than-usual wave knocks into the backs of his knees, a sense of the Grid’s amusement turning into annoyance running up his legs like the Lake itself is kicking him out.

            “Okay, fine,” he grumbles, shuffling out of the water. He takes off the second his ‘cycle’s activated, only to get an entourage of the larger ‘bugs accompanying him. Distracted, he wonders at it at first, but as more and more bumps and near-collisions drive him to the outskirts of the City, he begins to suspect what they’re doing: _Are you **herding** me?_

            He wants to be insulted at the thought. Then a hard yawn catches him by surprise, and he decides to find the humor in it instead as his eyes droop and sleepiness starts catching up to him. They push-guide him to the garage inside the Users’ mountain, a pair of smaller ‘bugs that rode larger ones’ backs breaking off from the group to tag along upstairs with him like bodyguards. Half-asleep and with no (forced) direction on which room to go to, Clu stumbles and collapses into whatever bed habit sends him. He sighs, eyes drifting closed . . . . and in that no-man’s-land between asleep and awake, he wonders if he’ll ever see _her_ again . . . .

 


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grid, meet Encom System. (Do try to get along, you two.)

**Chapter 14**

            The weight around his neck seems to increase the closer they get to Encom, a frustrated restlessness emanating from it. ( _Steev must not’ve gone completely under._ ) It sparks an almost giddy excitement in Tron, though he’s still not looking forward to the battles to come.

            They sign in at the front desk before heading up this time – the lack of Leon’s escort apparently means they have to follow the rules – and a woman tries to flirt with Sam on the way upstairs, but barely gets an “Oh, hey, Patty” acknowledgement before Sam shuts her out again. (Tron tries to suppress his possessive flare of victory . . . if the way she eyes him up a moment later is any indication, he not only doesn’t succeed, she takes it as a challenge instead.) Other than the number of people moving about in the building, nothing seems to have changed since last night –

            Flynn’s pacing a hole into his floor, clutching at his hair while he mutters into his phone when they walk in, and Tron’s good humor dies under a new tension. _Trouble’s coming._

            “What happened? What’s wrong?”

            Dillinger looks up to answer, mouth catching in a yawn –

            “Roy! Man, you okay?” Flynn says, whipping around to face them. “What the hell happened . . . What? That shouldn’t be poss- . . .” His eyes go wide, skin paling, and he looks like he’s about to become ill. “Holy fuck,” he breathes. Then he jerks back into action. “No – no, man, you’ve already had one brush with death. Let’s not tempt – do I really wanna hear that? You’re only giving me more fodder to – No, go home. Get some rest.” His eyes flick up at them. “The boys are here, it’s Go time – _No_. If things go to shit here, you’ll be next up to bat . . . . Which of us is the boss, again? Dude. _Go. Home_.” He hits End and presses the phone against his chin for a minute, swaying slightly in place with eyes closed.

            “Dad?” Sam asks, making Flynn jerk awake again.

            “Alan walked outta the hospital an hour ago . . . after almost killing Roy just before dawn.”

            Sam’s jaw drops. Dillinger hisses and stiffens as an odd, high-pitched keening sound reaches Tron’s ears. His view gets slightly bigger and threatens to dim as Sam turns to look at him. He cups a hand over the chip at his neck to protect it from the encroaching darkness –

            “Tron – stay with me, man,” Sam’s voice echoes in his ears as he reaches for Tron; Tron almost can’t feel the touch. “What’s this mean – what do we have to worry about?”

            Tron gasps – the keening sound breaks off – and swallows past the ache in his throat. “It means D- Alan’s gone. He –” He shudders, head ducking as the world brightens. Someone whines, and Sam grabs him with both hands. “Jarvis is in control of his body now, and . . . he might be able to infect others, too.”

            “. . . Jar-vis?” Dillinger asks, glancing up to Flynn as Tron’s vision blurs.

            Tron tries to catch his breath. “The MCP’s moniker on the Grid. He used Clu as a mouthpiece and red herring, in case any resistance built up . . . Only showed his true colors after I freed the Sys- –” _And I still failed_. He chokes, his knees giving way as the world goes bright again –

            Someone clutches at him as he goes down, and he can’t help clinging back. The whine kicks up, only broken by his gasping sobs.

*  *  *  *  *

            {“Eddie, give us a minute?” Flynn murmurs, and he shoots out, burning laptop pinched gingerly between his palms like a pan fresh from the oven. He ducks into Kleinberg’s office next door, and doesn’t have a second thought about dropping the hardware onto the desk until the embedded computer flares awake.

            WTF’S GOING ON? WHAT’S WRONG WITH T?, he reads upside down. He rounds the corner and plops into the chair. He rubs a stinging hand over his face before clicking the microphone on.

            “Alan Bradley’s dead, only his body didn’t get the message – it just checked outta the hospital, after putting Kleinberg into it.”

            A series of nonsensical #^*^#@!@% &()<&*$#?:”{!! flows over the screen for a little bit, followed by, WHERE’S Q? IS SHE SAFE?

            “She’s taking Kleinberg home – he’s fine, by the way.” He doesn’t know why annoyance prickles at him over that, but it doesn’t really matter as more key-mashing gibberish flows over the screen until it blanks, the cursor blinking like Clu’s gasping for air.

 

            *Hate to sound like an asshole* a calmer text steps into the conversation a moment later, *but the sooner we get this shit started, the less likely it’ll happen to anyone else. Is the Grid ready for transport?*

            “I don’t know,” Eddie says, eyeing the wall the two offices share. “It’ll have to wait for Tron’s meltdown to finish, first.” His heart twinges in sympathy, in spite of his cold words.}

*  *  *  *  *

            “We don’t have time for this,” Tron gasps wetly into Sam’s neck several minutes later; Sam winces, his grip tightening as he starts to rock – no, technically, they _don’t_ have time for this, but going into battle emotionally distressed is even dumber than taking what little time they have to process some of it first.

            He’s pretty sure that saying such a thing would only encourage Tron to do the opposite anyway, though, so he stays quiet.

            “Don’t have time . . .”

            Dad presses a hand to Tron’s back; Sam catches his eye and gives a headshake, warning him off of saying anything. Dad’s mouth closes and he nods, but doesn’t pull away.

            Tron’s grip eases with an accompanying sigh, “No time.” He sits up enough to pull Sam’s dogtags from around his neck and offer them to Dad. “Start the download.”

            Dad takes them, eyebrows jumping in recognition when he sees the SD card nestled between them – Sam manages to silence him with another look while Tron buries his face in Sam’s neck again. _Not the time, Dad._

            Dad makes a “Hmph” sound, but gets up to comply.

            Sam almost makes a joke about a User following a Program’s orders for once, but another whining sob from Tron silences him, too.

*  *  *  *  *

            They’re almost all awake and snarling, anxious and ready for a fight, when the space suddenly expands. Steev leads their tumble out, Shield lit and sparking with power to a swarm of bland-colored gridbugs. Ram, Jet, and Beck quickly join him in the carnage, others following suite as Tron’s distress slowly purges from their systems.

            The swarm ebbs and flows as lightning crackles overhead, and it eventually morphs into vaguely familiar Programs who seem increasingly determined to isolate him. He hears screams, revving lightcycle engines, and the ground starts to tremble. The unknown Programs create a bubble around him, parting briefly for a white-circuited female in equally white armor to approach him. Growling fills the air, and he can’t tell if it’s coming from the Programs of the Grid or the MCP here, but he answers it with a bloodthirsty sneer of his own, turning to confront her when the bubble refuses to respond to him.

            “Steev, you remember me?” the female asks, offering her bare palms –

            Maya breaks through and leaps out from behind him with a protective screech, and love swells in his chest as she tackles the Program. The feeling clears his head for a moment, and he glances around for the others just as Ram slams Tarjeet to the ground, circuitry flickering with red as he presses coding into the other Program. Tarjeet yelps, goes stiff . . . then stills, processing. Almost a dozen other Programs lay frozen on the ground as well –

            “We are your _Welcome Party!_ ” the female yells, disentangling herself from Maya. “Why’re you attacking us?”

            “Perhaps because my counterpart’s the only white-circuited Program on Encom’s System,” Steev snaps, looking a little closer at the Program. _Looks like Hamaley . . . but no. Hamaley’s blue._ A quick ping, and Maya sends the Program tumbling with a kick before ducking behind him to guard his six. “Try again.” He raises his Shield, charging up the star –

            Something screeches, a green thing fluttering its wings into his face –

            “HURT JIMINY AND I’M KICKING YOUR ASS!” his own voice bellows. Everyone freezes, then turns to look at the pair of lightcycles roaring into the battlefield. One skids to a stop feet away from the female, and his aim rises to protect Maya against the new threat –

            - To see his reflection bearing down on him with a scowl.

            “STAND DOWN!” his father yells into the silence as he rolls to a stop on the female’s other side, green circuitry flickering with red against his white armor. ([What in the –?] Maya pings; he has no answer.) “Everyone take a deep fucking breath and stand down. This shit’s exactly what the MCP wants.” He leans down, offering his hand to the female with a murmured, “You okay, Ham?”

            “Yeah,” she breathes, accepting the offer. “What’s got them so riled?” she asks, almost curling into his father’s lap. ( _What the **hell**?_ His Shield drops slightly in shock.)

            “Tron got some bad news Outside,” he tells her while eyeing them. Ranks tighten around Steev at that, Ram and Beck flanking him as Jet tugs Maya further back into the crowd; the fluttery green thing settles on his counterpart’s shoulder, its shape and coloring reminiscent of a grasshopper. “I’m guessing some of his reaction bled into them – he was making every electronic in the room go a little haywire –”

            Thunder BOOMs, Tarjeet and the other downed Programs arch and groan as one, and the ground lurches under their feet, a threatening new growl rising from it as the City settles behind them.

            “Permission to enter your City for sanctuary,” his father says, looking straight to Ram. His mouth quirks. “It’s a helluva lot closer than ours is right now.” Steev half-expects a [You owe us] to ping past him, but it doesn’t manifest.

            “Permission granted,” Ram nods, eyeing the clouds billowing above as lightning cracks again. “Programs! Grab the fallen and retreat, we’ve got catching up to do.”

*  *  *  *  *

_He sighs, giving in to guilt again as he leaves his Chem test – the Prof had sent out a reminder text this morning that he didn’t care **which** class time they came to take his test, as long as they took it – and heads back to Claire’s secret lair with more food in hand._

_She’s asleep, as predicted . . . though the motorcycle-shaped thing under the tarp on the other side of the room’s new._

_The scent of food – and a light bump to her shoulder from the food bag – rouses Claire to a slow, stretching wake-up._

_“Oh, god, it’s still here,” she murmurs through a yawn. He bumps her again._

_“How long’s it been here? What is it?”_

_Her stomach growls, and she makes grabby hands at the food; Ethan surrenders it._

_“I could tell you,” she smacks through her first bite, “but if it’s what I think it is, you’d be the expert between us. Maybe you should tell me.”_

_Curiosity piqued, he heads to the tarp and yanks it off . . . and can’t believe his eyes. “You built this?”_

_“No, **that** did,” she says through another bite, gesturing to the thing they built the other night. He shies away from it. “I stepped out for like, twenty minutes to get food, and SHVA had it mostly built when I got back –”_

_“I told you not to plug it in.”_

_She shrugs a shoulder. “Not my fault you took so long coming back.”_

_His conscience stabs at him, and he looks away – his gaze snagging again on the TRON-esque ‘cycle before him. “Does it work?”_

_“Dunno,” Claire says, setting the food down with sudden nerves. “I’m too afraid to **touch** it. I haven’t even left the room for more’n a couple minutes – I don’t wanna find out what’ll come next. Been half-expecting it to melt away or something – to disappear again.”_

_His finger brushes along the front wheel, goosebumps racing up his arm until he shivers. “Wanna find out?” tumbles out of his mouth._

_She chews her lip, a sparkle lighting her eyes as she fights a grin._

_{They get so caught up in getting the ‘cycle upstairs and outside that neither thinks to so much as put her laptop to sleep. Minutes after they leave, something else takes over. The screen starts flicking through multiple windows, searching for a particular set of code . . .}_

*  *  *  *  *

            Gridbugs swarm every time the storms ease up, giving Jet, Beck and Paige something to focus on in teaching Encom’s Programs how to integrate Rinzler’s influence into fighting the MCP’s work. Steev stays behind, antsy to reconnect with his Dad again (and find out how/when _he_ got Rinzler) while also attempting to play interpreter for Ram.

            His counterpart keeps shooting him odd looks like he doesn’t know what to do with him, and the feeling’s mutual – it’s odd, really, that they didn’t merge automatically when Encom accepted the Grid’s Programs –

            An arm bumps his. [Hey], his counterpart pings, [Let’s let the grownups be grownups for a while.] A head jerks toward the door, and he follows his counterpart out. He takes point as they head down and out of the building, leading his counterpart to his own designated unit before the latest storm’s power overwhelms either of them.

            It’s a sparse space, even by Program standards. The barest of necessities peel out of the walls when he activates the system, and he resists the inclination to feel embarrassed as his counterpart looks around. He had known his autonomy would be fleeting at best, so he saw no point in gathering items to express his history or personality. There’s no way he could’ve predicted Maya or her effect on him . . . now, he catches himself wishing he’d had more time, grateful as he is to be back in a modern System again.

            His counterpart fingers an empty Disk sitting in a stand, the only real decoration in the room – a gift from Maya and Yori, “In case you ever wanna be a little more inconspicuous”. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to forgiveness from the elder Program for his early blunders on the Grid.

            “Where _is_ Other Dad, anyway?” his counterpart suddenly asks into the silence. “I figured he wouldn’t be front-and-center for everything, but I thought he’d at least show up to –”

            “Tron left him behind.”

            “What?”

            His teeth grit with frustration. He breathes out and looks to the ceiling, trying to keep his opinions at bay to relay accurate information. “Clu still thinks he’s to blame for most of the Grid’s problems, so he didn’t want to come. Tron let him stay, and gave him a bogus mission to work on until the Grid computer gets transported here – not that Clu knows that part.”

            “. . . Huh.”

            It’s a much calmer reaction than he expected – or wanted. “You’re okay with that?”

            The room rattles under another thunderclap, the power in its circuitry wavering. His counterpart eyes it, then shrugs as it steadies out. “I don’t know if you’ve seen Tron in action, but he can get a little scary when he’s losing control. Call me selfish, but if y’all’s freak-out was any indication, I _really_ don’t wanna see what his would look like in here. The storms and bugs’re bad enough.” Lightning sparks outside, a new storm wave following it. His counterpart edges to the window to watch the rain fall.

            “What’s Tron got to be so upset about, anyway?” Steev asks, confused at the non-sequitur. “The transfer’s gone ridiculously well, considering –”

            “His dad died this morning. And almost took Ram’s Creator with him.”

            Steev stills, gulps. “ _Dead_ , dead? You’re sure?”

            “Sure as a Program can be about Users . . . why? Can’t you feel SamIAm’s distress?”

            . . . Oh. Maybe that’s what the antsy-ness is. He tries and fails to shake it off again. “We may have a bigger problem, then,” he says, reaching for his Shield. “Tron asked me to review his Disk a while back, to see if any part of the MCP might still exist in his code. Long story short, I made a complete copy of it during the process . . . and we developed a new theory, after Clu told him off for being an idiot.”

            His counterpart’s eyebrows rise – whether at the invasion of privacy or something else, he doesn’t know or really care – and pulls away from the window to join him in the middle of the room as he flips his Shield over and activates the memory banks.

            Thunder booms again in the distance, leaving the rain behind.

*  *  *  *  *

            “So far, so goo- –”

            The Flynns’ shushing hisses are louder than his words. He’s too tired to mock them for it, but he does send Flynn Jr an annoyed glare as he closes the door and walks back inside. It sails over Jr’s head, and Eddie bites back a sarcastic complaint about the pair of lovebirds on the couch as he drags a chair closer to Flynn’s desk. “How’s it coming in here?” he murmurs.

            “Surprisingly well,” Flynn says, eyes glazed as he scrolls through code. “They’ve got updates reminiscent of the mid-nineties, plus several advanced bits in the security features I wanna get a closer look at later. If all goes well when the laser and computer link up, we’ll not only be back in business. We’ll be ripping a new hole in the competition.”

            “ . . . You’re not looking to go back in, are you?” Eddie asks, eyeing him.

            “Hell, no. Not anytime soon, at least – Lora’ll have my head as it is, when she hears about Roy going in. She and our advanced tech guys will get a thorough look through everything first.”

            Eddie almost snorts, familiar with Flynn’s lingo. _A month to six weeks tops, then._ “Where the hell are we putting the thing, anyway?”

*  *  *  *  *

            The swarms and storms eventually ease up, allowing for the twenty-year Update to begin. A quick glimpse through Encom’s camera network shows Tron dozing on Flynn’s couch, his head in Sam’s lap.

            “Oooh, blackmail fodder!” Clu cackles.

            “What.”

            Clu drops his evil mastermind caricature at the cold demand, straightening under the others’ suspicious gazes. “Sam’s had a Tron crush since forever,” he says, then points to the screen, where Tron sighs under Sam’s petting; Sam smiles dopily. “Looks like the feeling’s mutual, but unrealized. The UST’s probably gonna drive us all nuts in a couple weeks, but now we’ve got evidence if either of ‘em gets stubborn about it – that, or we can use it as a threat to expose one to the other to get a day off, or whatever.”

            “UST?” Jet asks, looking like he’s trying not to laugh – or maybe cry.

            “Unresolved Sexual Tension,” Clu supplies. Shaddox’s eyebrows shoot up, and Ram’s mouth twitches before he starts chewing at it (he can kinda see why so many of his offspring are so taken with the guy – serious, but cute. And able to take a joke). “Any idea what Tron’s like when he’s sweet on someone?”

            An exploding sound comes out of Jet’s mouth before he covers it and turns away, eyes and circuitry bright with humor.

            “One battle at a time, yeah?” Beck says, leaning back over the table projection. “Where else can we store the storms’ energy? Our cisterns are already threatening to run over, and the rain ain’t slowing yet.”

            [These guys seriously need to learn how to play again], he tries to ping to Steev . . . only for it to disappear in the storm’s ether. He turns around, searching for his kid. “Where’d Steev go?”

            “Which one?” Ram asks, skimming through lists of upgrades and new applications.

            “Both – either – why the hell didn’t they Reintegrate upon arrival, anyway?”

            Ram shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine, if not better. What’s this GPS thing about?”

            “Stalking Programs,” Shaddox grumbles, glaring at it.

            Ram blinks at him, face twisting into a grimace. “There’s an algorithm for tracking individual Programs? Where’s the fun in that?”

            Clu snorts before reigning it back in, returning to the table. “The world’s gotten a lot bigger than just the System you’re on – trust me, you’re gonna need it when we get the internet back.”

            “New places for Hide and Seek?” Jet perks up, than smacks Beck’s arm. “You’re It!”

            Beck slumps. “Who’re you and where’s my brother,” he complains to the table before turning a glare up at his twin. “Did you forget you’re supposed to be the serious one?”

            Jet makes a face at him.

            “Go play, Boys,” Ram orders, shaking his head and not bothering to hide his smile this time as he waves them off. “We’ll call if we need you.”

            The pair dart away immediately, trading jabs and playful curses as they leave. Clu itches to join them, but sighs instead, refocusing on the work ahead. _Being the Senior of a System **sucks**._

            “It _is_ odd,” Shaddox muses a moment after they leave. “Jet’s rarely the playful one, and it usually takes a lot more prodding to get him there. What’s different?”

            “It’s prob’ly something to do with the games,” Clu says with an absent shrug, familiar with the itch of extra energy humming through his system.

            “Games?”

            “The TRON games – the original doubles as a cleaning system and power boost for the Programs in PCs and consoles, but Jet’s and Beck’s games might have the same effect on them. Flynn’s set Encom to playing all the games for the next couple days to clear out T--Senior’s trash, so I wouldn’t worry about the boys acting weird until next week or so . . . . having a new System to update and adjust to prob’ly doesn’t help, either.”

            “You’re saying Programs connected to Tron’s game get power directly from the Users when they play it?” Ram asks.

            Clu thinks on it. “. . . Yeah, in the simplest of terms.”

            Ram and Shaddox share a speaking glance.

            “Don’t worry. I won’t turn evil dictator on you or anything,” Clu jokes, straightening and puffing his chest out. “I’ve got practice.” He takes a superhero pose that makes them snort.

            “You’ve got Rinzler.”

            _Yeah, that too_. He slumps in a moment of overdramatics. “You Programs are _no fun_!”

            Even Shaddox cracks a smile for that one.

*  *  *  *  *

            “How are you – really?” his brother asks, settling on the cliff next to him after their chase through an increasingly all-too-familiar wasteland.

            Beck chuckles through a sigh, weariness suddenly dragging at him as he shakes his head. “Should’ve known that was just an act.”

            Jet bumps his shoulder teasingly, then they sit and stare at Grid City’s glow in the distance for a few minutes.

            “It never really occurred to me, what you were going through in the enemy camp,” Beck finally says. “What you had to witness, what you had to _do_ , just to stay under the radar.” His mouth dries with horror as a memory flashes in his mind; he tries to swallow it down. “Did Sam Flynn know what you were risking, to keep him safe?”

            Jet shifts awkwardly before answering, “Not in detail, no . . .” A smile teases his mouth. “But he saved them anyway, before I had any idea they were in danger. And again, after I threatened him.”

            “What?”

            “You don’t know?”

            Beck shakes his head, lost.

            The smile flirts with Jet’s mouth again. “Merc and Maya were with Jarrex on the Recognizer that picked him up.” Beck’s breath catches; Jet looks away. “First, he gave all Programs he could reach new code embedded in a power boost that partially blocked the virus, then he distracted the guard from analyzing Maya too deeply –”

            “Clu kept throwing fits, every time Jarvis wanted to pick one of ‘em apart,” Beck thinks aloud. “It pissed him off, that Jarvis was so distracted with a ‘useless modification’.” A laugh huffs out of him as he looks away. “Kept Jarvis offa me, too, come to think of it . . . I just thought Jarvis was jealous about me taking his place in Clu’s confidence . . .” He shakes his head, then raises his face to the sky. “My God, the jackass played us all.”

            “He kept the MCP’s focus on him and Dad as much as possible, so the rest of us could lay the groundwork to save the day.”

            Beck grimaces, Paige again coming to mind. “. . . Yeah. That’s one way to look at it.”

            “You still don’t see he was innocent?”

            “How do you still think he _was_? What d’you know that I don’t?”

            “I _know_ you’ve caught him singing a couple times.”

            Incredulous, Beck stares at his brother a minute. “So you think having a _song_ stuck in your head is evidence of victimhood?”

            “You remember what he was singing?”

            “What’s it matter? He was –”

            “He was calling for help!” Jet’s voice bounces and echoes off the jagged peaks and rough terrain around them. He swallows, shakes his head and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve seen him destroy Programs who showed the slightest hint of personality after Rectification, yet you were sauntering about like you owned the place bare cycles after being captured. Even after you tried to kill Dad –”

            Beck cringes and Jet chokes, the terror of those few minutes making them both ill until they both shove the memory back. “Dad woke up at one point, when he was yelling at you,” he says after a moment. “I don’t think he had any idea I was there. He just kinda . . . smirked. Then he wiggled a little and went right back to sleep.

            “That was when I knew for sure Clu wasn’t _just_ a villain – if Dad’s ‘bad side’ could claim you, then have absolutely no problem with Clu’s anger . . . .” He shakes his head and looks away. [If Clu had raised his Disk at you that cycle,] Jet pings, [I don’t know who I’d’ve jumped to protect.]

            Beck swallows. _It would’ve exposed you, either way_ , he doesn’t ping back.

            “But that’s not your only problem,” Jet says, bumping his shoulder after a brief silence. “What is it, brother.”

            _We’re not so different – not anymore_. Beck looks away from the hope of Grid City’s glow to the darkness surrounding them. His throat goes tight, air suddenly hard to breathe as tears flood his vision. He ducks his head, the brightness of his circuitry fracturing in the glare, fingers curling into the dust under them. “The girl of my dreams mated a monster!” bursts out without permission.

            “What? Don’t talk about my bro- –”

            He smacks Jet’s arm away before it can touch him. “We met when I was full of lies and violence. Clu took the lies, so guess what she got left with.” He stands to stomp away.

            “A man filled to bursting with loyalty and compassion.”

            He whirls back around. “I mocked, belittled, and _beat_ her every excuse I got –”

            “Did you?” Jet asks, cocking his head before rising to match him. “Did the enemy who risked his life to help and protect her speak harshly to her? Did the Program she was dating hurt her for making a choice he didn’t like?”

            “ _Yes_ –”

            “ _No_.” Jet presses close, until their noses almost touch. “No, _you_ didn’t.” Something burns in his eyes, but Beck somehow knows it’s not for him. “The Master _Control_ Program couldn’t stand to have any Program _out_ of its control – even one who’d chosen its side. _He_ possessed you. He used you to try to break _her_ , just like he used Clu –”

            “What could she possibly want to do with me now?” Beck asks, the fight suddenly gone out of him. He shudders, arms wrapping around himself as cold invades his system. _I hurt my mate, threatened our Creator,_ _tortured our Dad . . . . Why am I still here?_

            Jet’s shoulders relax. He steps back, then shrugs. “As I recall, her persistency’s part of what drew you to her in the first place. Maybe you should stop making her chase you, grow some balls, and ask her yourself.”

            It sounds so much more like something _he_ would’ve said that Beck snorts, wiping the spilled tears from his face. “Gah, should’ve known you’d be no help.”

            Jet grins, wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Glad to prove you right, brother. Welcome home.”

*  *  *  *  *

            { _So the Grid’s Clu is derezzed, he muses as he listens in. How unfortunate. Part of him had hoped to finally have an equal of sorts. Oh, well. He’s happy to provide a little extra vengeance, nonetheless. Perhaps starting with these “brothers”. How might he entice them closer . ._ . .}

 


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear I may have to slow my updates even further, as I've only just got started with chapter 17.

**Chapter 15**

            “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” the young User snarls, hardly bothering to look up from the pad he’s using after their shoulders jar painfully.

            Jarvis considers following the boy and infecting him _and_ his machine, only to decide it’s not worth the energy to waste. He can feel the pull of his mate growing stronger as he wanders the campus, but it gives him no direction to turn to . . . until a lightcycle buzzes past him, a pair of ridiculous Users whooping with excitement in the afternoon light.

            _Hardly impressive at that crawling speed_ , he scoffs at it as it trails away. . . . It _does_ look vaguely similar to Sam Flynn’s converted ‘cycle, though. He follows and loses track of it within a couple blocks, with all the Users and other vehicles getting in his way. With an annoyed huff, he decides to reverse his search.

            It takes hours of circling in and through the campus over and over again for him to break free – apparently the lightcycle’s become an attraction – and trace it back to its source, aching limbs unused to the effort of walking so much. He tugs at the “pants” riding low on his hips; considers taking the “jacket” off until a cool breeze rushes past him, and he curls into it for whatever warmth he can find. His “shoes” pinch terribly the longer he walks, but the odd and increasingly concerned looks from passing Users makes him leery of pausing to rest for longer than a moment.

            The “sun” dims unexpectedly while he’s wandering through an old, business-based Sector; he looks to the slice of sky above him for an explanation, and sees increasingly dark clouds rolling over it.

            _Storm’s coming in,_ a weary piece of the User’s memory supplies. _Probably a cold front, this time of year._

            Useless, unnecessary information, he thinks, until a stronger wind-gust makes him shiver. Luckily, he’s nearly to the building’s entrance, and doesn’t have to wait much longer to be warm again.

*  *  *  *  *

            He’s gotten used to the silence . . . somewhat. His hearing has adjusted to the bugs’ chittering enough to where he can almost understand the flow of their conversations, when they don’t notice him eavesdropping on them. He’s also taken to thinking out loud, to help mitigate any further Program/bug misunderstandings. It seems to have helped. (It’s certainly helped to create a new routine of sorts: wherein Clu takes a swim in Arcade Lake before heading into sleep mode at cycle’s end, and the bugs _do not_ panic when they see him there.)

            He dreams of the Arcade and its hidden office regularly, now – sometimes teeming with memories like the first time; sometimes standing empty, though never quiet, thanks to its games and ever-playing jukebox. It holds a comfort, a _home_ ness, he thought he’d lost ages ago, even when the children hound him to tell stories and eat pizza, or to play the games with them, or just chase them around again. It’s always a joy to see them every time, especially when the Sam Flynn lookalike wants to cuddle . . . which is often –

            “Get your head in the game!” his teenaged opponent grouches before smashing Clu’s ship to smithereens again. He smacks Clu’s shoulder in mild annoyance and walks away, muttering. Clu huffs a breath and presses one of his buttons to quicken the countdown for whoever might want to play next before turning around to gauge the Arcade again.

            It’s a decent-sized crowd, though more games stand empty than not. He wanders the isles for a few minutes, half-hoping but not expecting to see _her_ golden armor as _Separate Ways_ catches at his ears.

**_If you must go-o, I wish you love. You’ll never walk alo-o-one – together, Love – miss you, Love!_ **

            _I’m not going anywhere_ , he thinks, then stops and rolls his eyes at himself – the Grid might be more self-aware than other Systems, but there’s no way it’s conscious enough to try serenading anyone, let alone him. (Tron and his gang, maybe, but not _him_.)

            **_Someday love will find you, break those chains that bind you_** **_–_**

            . . . And it’s time to go. He heads for the exit, figures already starting to fade around him. The song tries to chase him back to the surface, and he forces his mind to supplant it with the bridge of another that regularly gets stuck in his head.

            _Carry on_ , memory hums into the silence between Arcade and Lake.

            “You will always remember!” he shouts as he returns to his body.

            _Carry on_

            “Nothin’ equals the splendor! Now your life’s no longer empty –”

            His voice cracks with an unexpected jolt of grief, breaking the song. His eyes open to the empty sky above –

            “Surely heaven waits fo-or you!” a new voice reverberates across the lake. He jerks upright. He _understood_ that –

            “Carry on, my wayward so-o-on,” a male’s voice continues, “There’ll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to re-e-est, Don’t you cryyy –”

            “Don’t you cry NO MORE!” the female finishes.

            – There, from the direction where Grid City had disappeared, a pair of Programs sitting in a green-lit blob . . . unless Clu truly has lost it this time. He hardly dares to look away from them as he swims back to dry land.

            He’s already feeling a little sick with horror when he reaches – and recognizes – them. “What’re you still doing here?”

            “Encom doesn’t have a laser anymore,” Yori says, then shrugs. “I’m the laser control Program – what use would I be?”

            “And I’m not about to leave my mate,” Jarrex pitches in, the pair calm under his looming. “Between Steev and the Boys’ adaptability, it’s not like they’ll really need another Guard Program loafing about, either. . . so we decided to stay, too.”

            Questions, protests, and admonishments clutter his throat. He swallows them down and nods, not wanting to argue with their excuses. It’s far too late – not to mention hypocritical – to try and change their minds, anyway. He tries to shrug off the panic burbling in his chest. “Well, . . . what d’you think of the bugs’ work so far?”

            Yori gives him a knowing smirk while Jarrex replies, “Bug’s told us you’re the brains behind this operation – and it’s looking pretty damn good to me.”

            “I wouldn’t be against a tour, though, if you’re up for it,” Yori . . . teases? It feels like a tease.

            “It’s his wind-down time, ‘Ri. We’re already intruding,” Jarrex says, bumping her shoulder with his.

            “I’m not saying _right now_ –”

            “Why not?” Clu says, just to keep them from putting on a show. “I’ve got no time to lose. D’you?”

*  *  *  *  *

            “When’re you – hey, Flynn, you listenin’? _Flynn!_ ”

            A balled-up piece of paper smacks into Sam’s head, jerking him out of his contemplation on Tron’s hair. He grunts a startled warning, leaning protectively over Tron while his eyes zero in on his attacker. Dillinger – the jackass – just smirks at him, apparently thinking Dad’ll protect him if Sam retaliates. “When’re you gonna get the hardware?”

            Sam blinks.

            “Your boyfriend’s not going anywhere,” Dillinger taunts. “What’s your excuse –”

            “If you’re gonna harass my son into killing you, please do so outside of company time and property,” Dad mildly interjects, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

            “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.”

            “Army sergeant,” Dad says, waving a hand his way (and Sam realizes he’s spoken aloud) without looking away from his screen. “Desk jockey,” the hand swishes towards Dillinger (who’s struggling not to look horribly insulted). “Hmm. I wonder who’d win in a fight.”

            “Don’t discount the jockey,” Tron warns. Sam straightens as Tron rises to sit up. “There’s a reason Ram’s the oldest of us, after all – he prepares for _all_ angles.” His face pales, and Sam reaches out to steady his wobble.

            “So you don’t think I can take him?” Sam asks, more to keep the ridiculous conversation going than anything else.

            “You’re sneaky, clever, and a quick thinker, but I’ve yet to see you in an all-out fight. I’m not siding with anyone.” Tron sends him an untranslatable look under his lashes before dropping his head onto Sam’s shoulder with a sigh. “Food might’ve been a good idea, after all.”

            At least two stomachs rumble agreement, making Sam chuckle. “You just want me outta the room again.”

            Tron makes a disgruntled sound and cuddles closer –

            “Are you bringing the computer in or not, Flynn,” Dillinger snaps, earning himself another glare before Sam gives in and wiggles to pull out his phone without dislodging Tron.

            ETA on Grid retrieval? he texts Sonya. Seeing it’s past noon – wow, where’d the time go? – he asks what everyone wants to eat.

            She texts back while Dad and Dillinger fall into the traditional debate between quick and messy foods: WTF Flynn. Some of us have ACTUAL JOBS, y’know ;p

            A soft snort tells him Tron’s read the text too. He shoots back, Not my fault you stayed up all night playing games :p

            Silence. He loves winning non-existent arguments before they start. “Couple-three hours,” he predicts. “Where’re we putting it? Are we keeping it close, or keeping it secure?”

            Dad’s typing slows to a stop as he thinks. “It’s . . . prob’ly best if I don’t know the specifics for now. We’ll need it somewhere you ‘n Lora can access it, but tucked away where most employees don’t go.”

            “One of the smaller conference rooms on the third floor, maybe?” Dillinger suggests. “They’re mostly complete, aside from the lack of furniture –”

            “Works for me,” Sam says, sending a note on to Sonya before putting his phone away and getting up. “I’ll get a variety of finger-foods and whatnot. D’you –” he breaks off, noting how Tron’s only gotten paler. “You better stay and rest up – it’ll probably only get worse from here.”

            Tron nods blearily and flops back down. Sam steps back, fighting the urge to keep petting him. Two sets of keys start tapping again, though Dad looks especially amused when Sam looks toward the desk.

            “Right. I’ll see y’all later.”

            A soft snore from the couch answers as he leaves.

            {“You’re okay . . . with them?” Eddie asks into the silence a few minutes later – if one can ignore the snoring.

            “Don’t have time to parse it down to an opinion yet, so ‘m trying not to think about it,” Flynn says, eyes darting to the program-in-the-flesh snoring on his couch. “Doubt they’d listen to me, anyway, the stubborn brats,” he adds in an amused murmur Eddie’s pretty sure he’s not meant to hear.}

*  *  *  *  *

_Battle-hardened Programs abound in the new City, making him thirsty to conquer it. He’d been almost content with directing his System from his cell, but a new presence – similar to what had possessed Clu after his return from using Quorra – keeps riling him. It prevents him from entering the City, and has even partially blocked him from the Programs under his control within Clu’s rebels. His bugs can’t get in either, even after those bizarre storms had finally passed. Few have reached beyond the first block of buildings before derezzing, with or without an invading Program’s aid. They just can’t seem to get a foothold._

_It’s starting to seriously piss him off._

_The “brothers” provide an occasional distraction, when they wander beyond its borders. The one enamored with music – Jet? He wonders if that’s a coincidence with the latest game – doesn’t seem to have the extra presence that his “brother” and fellow Programs have._

_He’s laid out bait in increasingly wider circles, but nothing’s come of it yet. His patience is wearing thin, having so much energy and nothing to do with it._

_**Where are you? What’s taking so long?**_

*  *  *  *  *

            He pauses before announcing himself, both amused and mildly surprised at how easily Maya and Jiminy work together. It shouldn’t be a surprise – between Jiminy being her honorary grandfather’s Creation and her previous experience with Bug, et al, she probably feels the most at-home of all the new Programs on Encom’s System.

            Speaking of, “Y’think Bug and Jiminy will get along?”

            Both jump, startled, then Jiminy zings toward him – only to pause in midair, a question hovering between them. [We’re okay, J. Right?], he pings to the bug, offering a finger to perch on.

            “Like the proverbial house on fire,” Maya responds, eyeing him as his little buddy rejoins him. “Though I’ve never figured out if that’s a good thing or not.”

            Steev chuckles, urging Jiminy up to his shoulder as he approaches his beloved. “I had to shut down for a bit after Reintegration. Did I miss anything good?”

            She edges away before he can get too intimately close, and he takes the cue to stop and wait for her analysis. “Daddy’s convinced Uncle Beck to talk to Aunt Paige again,” she says after a moment of looking him over. “All four of them have taken to mapping the area around Grid City since the storms’ve passed. Uncle Tron’s still recovering in the User world – I think he’s planning to check in with Clu and the others before coming here.” Her stance is relaxing, but there’s still a furrow in her brow while she studies him.

            [I still love you, May], he pings, offering his hand. She accepts after a moment’s hesitation, mirroring hand hovering over his to establish a deeper connection.

            “Your Dad’s charming the pants off of Uncle Ram and Shaddox – again, not sure if that’s a good thing.” Their hands turn vertical, a light growing in the negative space between their palms as Steev grimaces playfully. Maya smirks back. “ . . . We’re going to have to figure out a new designation for the two Clus, when the merge happens,” she murmurs, edging ever-so-slightly closer so their fingers can intertwine; they both shiver with want as their generated energy shoots through them. “I’ve missed you,” she finishes, leaning in to brush her lips against his.

            He hums and pulls her closer, into a deeper kiss –

            Then Jiminy squeals in his ear. “Oww – what?”

            Jiminy launches off Steev’s shoulder to bat at a quartet of dots on the screen heading into Encom’s Theta Sector. Where Tron Senior’s being held. “What of it? I’m sure they’re just going in to –” but no. It’s smack in the middle of that Sector’s rest period . . . when it functions at all, anymore. He releases Maya to zoom in on the screen.

            Rising tension in his gut eases at the names that appear, only for a niggling in his mind to stall it out before it can go away fully. “What’re they doing way out there?”

            “Aunt Paige keeps finding song fragments in the wasteland – you know how she can get about music.”

            Steev nods vaguely, his mind spinning. Something’s not adding up. He turns away a little to stare into the middle-distance, trying to let the problem surface on its own. Fragments in the wasteland . . . leading to Senior’s holding compound . . . in the middle of a dead-time for the Sector . . . .

            “Is there a problem?”

            [I don’t know], he pings by accident, head lifting to lock gazes with her. “Care to find out in person?”

            Maya eyes the screen, chewing her lip. Then her hand squeezes his. [Yes.]

*  *  *  *  *

_The two Trons shudder at the same time, a wave of dizziness passing over them. A mutual glance reveals red flickering through their circuitries, an angry growl rumbling out of their chests._

_“Senior’s trying to reconnect,” the other Tron says, the camouflage-paint of his armor amplifying the light of his rejection._

_He swallows down the denial (it shouldn’t be possible, with Encom’s internet still down). “Our time’s running short. Will you help us? Spread the word?”_

_The other Tron looks at him, then smirks and nods. “Fight for yourself first.”_

_He tries not to smirk back, and probably fails. **Three down, a few million more to go.** _

_As they part, he wonders how his counterparts are faring – if the First Copy has any sense of the rebellion he’s spawned; if the bank’s Tron has had any luck with the Police Department and other emergency response Systems in the city proper . . . ._

_And also, where to go next. Should he check in at home first?_

*  *  *  *  *

            “You’re kidding me.”

            Quorra looks up from her coffee cup.

            “. . . You’re not kidding.” Sharon sits back, mentally reviewing her tale. Her head shakes. “It’s like a soap opera. A _sci-fi_ soap opera.”

            “Hey, it’s not like we’re overflowing with dramatic comas and love triangles –”

            “No, you’ve just got a bajillion love children running around. Hell, you _are_ one.”

            Quorra’s teeth click closed on her protest. _Pretty accurate, actually._ She duck her head again as a blush threatens. “You believe me, then?”

            The silence pulls her head back up to connect with Sharon’s considering stare. A moment passes before Sharon nods. “For all it’s bizarre ridiculousness, it rings truer than your other origin story – which shouldn’t make any sense at all.” She shakes a finger at Quorra. “If you’re prankin’ me,” she warns, “I reserve the right to kick all your asses.”

            “Yes, Ma’am.”

            An alarm goes off, breaking the lighter mood. Sharon sighs. “I’m due to check in with my editor today.” She scoops up her phone to silence it. “Is it okay to leave Roy on his own? Should I call a neighbor to come –”

            “I’ve got a few hours,” Quorra says.

            “You’ve also got a world to save.”

            “Starting tomorrow. Today it’s just worlds colliding – I figure the fewer cooks in the kitchen, the better.”

            Sharon looks at her, chewing at a smile. “Nice mix of metaphors there, Winchester.”

            Quorra chuckles back. “I learned from the best, Bobby.”

            Sharon snorts her answer, letting Quorra win.

*  *  *  *  *

            The air’s humming with power when he enters the basement room. He closes the door and leans against it for a moment to just breathe it in. When it only raises the hairs on the back of his borrowed neck instead of reducing the pain or easing his exhaustion, Jarvis bites back a complaint and lurches toward the chair facing the flickering monitor. His body screams relief as he settles into it, making the User within stir. He squashes it before it can become more fully aware.

            He takes another deep breath, soaking in what power he can from the monitor and tower as his cheek lands on a propped-up fist . . . heavy eyelids droop –

            He jerks back upright – he might be “safe,” but he can’t risk showing weakness – and pulls himself closer to the desk so his hands can hover over the keyboard. [I’m here, Mate. What are you looking for?]

            He grins at the answer, fingers already tapping away to help narrow the search. Sometimes, being the “older model” has its advantages . . . .

*  *  *  *  *

_A quick lunch out with Anthony became something much longer, to where she’s getting back to her desk and waking up her computer at almost three in the afternoon. Still putting her purse away and getting situated, she doesn’t notice the screen flicker as a word document opens without any guidance._

_GREETINGS, MS LORA, is the first thing she sees, making her pause. TRON-JA 307020 CHECKING IN. MAY I MAKE A REQUEST?_

_Lora glances around, but doesn’t see anyone acting oddly in her vicinity. No snickering arises as she eyes her computer. “O. . .kay,” she breathes, hand reaching for the keyboard –_

_PLAY THE GAME, the screen tells her like it heard her answer. TRY TO GET THE OTHERS TO PLAY TOO, IF YOU CAN. RINZLER HAS A **LOT** OF MCP JUNK TO CLEAR OUT._

_Lora can feel her eyebrows shoot up at that. “ **Rinzler**? How’d you get . . .”_

_THE FIRST COPY HAS PASSED HIM ALONG. (She can almost see the blush forming on the program’s cheeks.) I DON’T THINK HE’S AWARE OF IT . . . BUT HE’S GOING TO NEED ALL THE HELP HE CAN GET._

_“Uh-huh.” With only a second’s hesitation, she trusts her gut and boots up the game._

_{His breath releases as power starts flowing through him. For all of Rinzler’s confidence that the User would at least listen to his request, the audacity of asking a User – **any** User –directly for help had felt horribly presumptuous and **wrong** , like he was breaking some kind of cardinal rule. Nevermind that Encom’s Clu does it all the time with Flynn and Miss Quorra without any negative repercussions – Flynn and Miss Quorra are **different** , after all._

_The game’s intro starts, infusing him with power as he walks out of the Sanctuary and murmurs thanks to the Tower Guardian with an added pat to his shoulder. He pauses a few steps down, his circuitry still flickering and ridiculously bright as Rinzler settles more firmly into his skin. His eyes briefly snag on his beloved’s concerned gaze before he forces himself to look beyond, to the dozens of Programs awaiting his orders. “Alright, people,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”_

_A cheer erupts from the crowd, which is a pleasant change.}_

 


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm gains momentum. What's the next move?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, have two months come and gone fast! Life went topsy-turvy on me for a bit, and I haven't quite steadied out yet. I can't promise when the next update will be, either, as the story itself seems to be dying on me (it's not _just_ Endgame's fault, but it certainly hasn't helped my muse or passion department to stay focused). I'm about halfway through writing Ch 18 right now and can't figure out if the reigns are yanking me forward or caught in some concrete behind me somewhere. As it stands: expect further delays (I'm sorry).

**Chapter 16**

            The Sector’s quiet when they roll in – more like what the old City’s Arcade Sector used to be, the two times he went there. Beck and Mercury exchange an uneasy glance behind their mates’ backs, but continue following them through the empty streets.

            He glances around, looking for movement or sign of Program life of any kind. Even in rest periods, there should be Guard Programs on patrol, watching for drunks and stragglers like them. Maybe an advancement in technology has rendered the need moot in the last two decades – then again, shouldn’t the MCP attacks have brought out the old guard as a precaution? (Or maybe he just feels paranoid and wants to be the Renegade again for a little while.) Beck shakes the questions out of his head as they slow to a stop for the next piece of music; tries to ignore the creeping sense of being watched from taking over the entertainment of watching his brother and mate exclaim and debate over a new fragment.

            “It’s about heroes again, so it must fit –”

            “But that’s definitely a female singer, so it probably goes –”

            Recognizing the beginnings of a new argument, he huffs and tunes them out, getting off his ‘cycle to scan their perimeter; Mercury looks up instead, analyzing the building the fragment was sitting against.

            Silence reigns, his brother’s and mate’s voices echoing louder and louder as debate heats into argument. Beck glances at the windows towering over them from across the way, the tension of something about to change rising –

            A small tinkling sound yanks his gaze back down. Movement finally pings in his periphery, and Beck turns to find a gridbug wandering down the other side of the street. It’s a gangly, awkward thing, bland in coloring and oddly unaware of their presence. Beck steps away from the group to get a better look, absently scooping up his baton as he walks closer. _This might explain why the Sector’s so quiet, if gridbugs can roam freely ._ . .

            It develops a slight limp, enticing his curiosity into coming far closer than he’d intended. He’s almost fully crossed the street by the time it notices him and rears up –

            A Disk slams into it, shattering the gridbug before Beck can do anything more than fall on his butt in surprise. Screeching rings in his ears as he dazedly watches the Disk return to its owner.

            “I know you grew up with the things, but _really?_ ” Mercury barks at him, snatching her Disk from the air with an incredulous look his way. “‘Cylces, now!” she shouts.

            The streets in every direction flood with ‘bugs before they can get away, the trap already sprung. Their quartet quickly groups together in the middle of the intersection so they’ll have overlapping quadrats to fight, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that fighting only draws more enemy ‘bugs in wave upon wave. Pings shoot through the tightening hollow between them in the chaos as they instead search for an escape route –

            [Merc, you’re a hacker, right?] He feels more than sees her glance his way and nod, their group adjusting to a broader view as Mercury slips into their center to fiddle with the street’s code.

            He ducks, slashing at a leaping gridbug’s underbelly, then zaps one about to bite Jet’s shoulder with his lightcycle baton. Both ‘bugs break with a soft whine and sparks of color – not normal gridbug behavior. Beck wonders at it, shifting to better guard his brother’s weaker side a little better; Jet notices and rolls his eyes, too breathless already to start up their old argument ( _Hi, Scalpel, I’m Hammer. Guess who’s better in a fight._ ). It makes Beck want to laugh.

            They’re a solid team, in spite of Paige and Jet never really working together in combat. They’re all experienced with battle, but fresh to the fight. They’re also surrounded by enemies with no hope of backup. They’re not going to last very long, even if they manage to run. And he doubts hiding will be an option for long.

            Another gridbug shatters in Beck’s face, Paige catching it mid-leap, its shards nicking one cheek before he can turn away. _Dad, we need help . ._ . .

*  *  *  *  *

            Flynn and Dillinger’s voices flutter at the edge of his consciousness before fad _ing completely as he flies. It doesn’t really occur to him that he must be dreaming until he breaks through the latticework of energy zinging through wires to a much more familiar view of the System’s new Cities. (Odd, really, he briefly thinks. He’s pretty sure he’s never realized he’s dreaming while still **in** the dream.) The few dreams he’s ever experienced were often frantic and full of change, with him in the middle of the action nine times out of ten. This one’s almost peaceful, idly wandering through the original City and past the training Arenas along its edge before departing to more home-like stomping grounds. The ground directly between the two is rough and craggy, like the Outlands had been, but somehow not as threatening. Almost like it’s already healing . . . . _

_Reaching Grid City, he occasionally stops to hover over a group patrolling the border or in various forms of training to observe their progress, but doesn’t stick around for long after he starts wondering what his family’s up to._

_It doesn’t take much effort to spot Ram and Clu, Clu’s white armor and green circuitry standing out amongst the shadowy black-and-white pattern of all the Grid’s Programs. They’re working well together, possibly even flirting a little, though Ram’s so out of practice with that particular game that it’s hard to tell for sure under such extremely different circumstances. He departs from them slowly, debating if cautioning Clu to take things slow would only encourage the Program into further recklessness or scare him off completely . . . ._

_Unable to spot the Boys or Maya in the City, he wanders to the glade next, lingering there for a long while to just breathe in its tranquility. Though nothing there acknowledges him, everything brightens, revitalizing the wilted edges he doesn’t remember seeing before – when did that happen? – but it’s the opaque golden rectangle lying across his bridge that really draws his attention. Silence hums around him, developing a kind of melody as he approaches and studies the code. The melody welcomes him, yet there’s a secrecy to it, like whatever it’s up to is not meant for him. (It should bother him, he thinks, but he instead sighs in relief – he’s not capable of handling one more thing, no matter how good, friendly, or innocent it may be.)_

_As though sensing the distress behind his thought, the mass of coding turns almost transparent before him, revealing a vaguely-female shape generating within the rectangle. He shuffles closer and peers inside. Something about it reminds him of the coffin in that old princess movie – not **Sleeping Beauty** , the other one – _

_Lightcycles roar past down below, the tension following them jerking him from his contemplation. Jiminy flies into the glade a moment later, chittering with worry. Curiosity mixed with concern quickly draws him behind the pair of departing lightcycles. He feels Steev’s uneasy glance at their surroundings when he joins them, then pulls himself away slightly when he realizes he’s eavesdropping on their private pings. He hovers over them a few minutes as they speed through the darkness, then a Call yanks him ahead, to where his boys and their mates are fighting for their lives at the center of a massive gridbug swarm._

_(This, he’s more familiar with.)_

_He watches a moment, wishing, as he always does when finding the Boys mid-fight, that he could place some kind of barrier around them to at least slow the flood. Then he narrows his focus and joins Mercury at the center of their tiring circle._

_Power surges, circuitries brightening as he settles; Mercury looks up and blearily blinks his way before returning to her struggle with the coding._

_“How’s it coming, Merc?” Jet asks, his voice oddly muffled to Tron’s hearing like he’s speaking through water._

_“A lot more guesswork than I’d like,” she says, not quite as muffled. “Can’t tell what’s shortcuts, what’s System-critical, and what’s just the road. How’s it going up there?”_

_“It’s slowing down,” Beck says, uneasy suspicion lacing his tone. “I don’t think I like gridbugs who can think for themselves.” A glance out reveals bugs slowly retreating, as though they’re being pushed back by an invisible line. Some manage to randomly slip through in spurts, giving his boys and their mates a chance to catch their collective breath while the fight continues –_

_“What in the . . .” Paige breathes in the next lull._

_They all follow her gaze, confused, a little awed, and increasingly worried as more and more grindbugs somehow climb through thin air over their heads. Fireworks flare as some pause to chitter and screech at them, then bang against nothing._

_“Mercury,” Beck orders, a chilly fear turning his voice hard. “Get crackin’.”_

_Tron agrees, gently nudging Mercury’s hands to the coding she needs and adding small bursts of encouraging energy as she unravels the code enough to begin the changes –_

_Their small quadrant separates and descends a couple keystrokes sooner than it should, just before the barrier halts and the bugs break through from above. Tron tries to mentally wave it off as quirks of a far more advanced System than he’s used to, but something about it feels off as the flood crashes in and threatens to overwhelm them again._

_(“Thanks, Dad,” he thinks he hears Beck breathe as they sink. A shot of hope stabs into Tron’s chest at the first words between them since . . . but no. This is a dream. It’s not really Beck.)_

_Their temporary elevator comes to a stop just a couple floors down, the first startled gridbugs peering down at them, yet no longer trying to reach them. Tron eyes them, only half-listening to the questions and debate flowing among the other four: Why are the gridbugs acting so strangely? What protected them – was it a natural part of the System’s defenses? Which tunnel should they take, and should they split up –_

_“No. We need to stick together. It’s our best chance of surviving whatever-the-hell’s happening –”_

_“You make it sound like it’s a trap,” Paige snaps._

_Beck blinks at her. “It’s a little too convenient **not** to be.”_

_“ **And they say that a hero could save us – I’m not gonna stand here and wait .** . .” echoes like a taunt through one of the darkened tunnels surrounding them. Paige raises a brow at her mate and takes a running jump to regenerate her lightcycle._

_Beck makes a face, rolling his eyes at Mercury in commiseration – a smile tugs at her mouth in response – but moves to join his mate before Paige’s ‘cycle can get too far ahead._

_A sense of impending doom swallows them in the darkness as he watches, Jet and Mercury following without question. Tron looks back up at the gridbugs, still peering over the edges of their little quadrant like the measly twenty feet are more like twenty thousand._

_**You don’t touch my family** , he wants to growl at them._

_A sound like mocking laughter burbles out and reverberates around him, like they heard him anyway . . . ._

            Tron shivers awake to tapping keys and absent murmurings, Flynn’s office otherwise bare and silent. A glance at the clock tells him Sam’s been gone a little over thirty minutes, but it feels like a lifetime since he’s been warm. He tries and fails not to curl in tighter, feeling far too vulnerable for what’s coming . . . .

*  *  *  *  *

            The sense of safety disappears the farther down the tunnel they go, and Beck wants to double back. He tries to shake it off, remembering the gridbugs’ odd behavior, but the memory of what it was like to play Renegade with Dad – and how much the past few minutes had felt like that, in spite of all the weirdness and panic – clings to him. (He wants to hug his dad, and has a creeping sense he’ll never get a chance to.)

            “ _I’ll hold on to the wings of the eagles, watch as they all fly away ._ . .” the echo calls out, prompting Jet to race past his slowing ‘cycle. Mercury revs up next to him.

            “You felt it too,” she comms him.

            “Yeah.”

            “What was it?” _Where did it go?_

            He shakes his head, not wanting to voice the only (surely impossible) answer he has.

            She lets it slide, like she understands his hesitance. “You know where we’re going?”

            “Deeper into Theta Sector,” he says, knowing it’s not the answer she’s asking for. Something in him keeps pinging that they’re heading deeper into the trap he’d sprung, not escaping it – “Thanks, by the way,” he adds instead, trying to ease her worry. “I didn’t really need the rescue, but I’d’ve been worse off without it.”

            Mercury huffs and rolls her eyes at him in a clear _ugh, **boys**_ gesture. He smirks back at her, making it clear he knows he’s full of crap.

 

            {“You think it’s a trap, too?” Paige asks, trying to gentle the frustration in her tone when the cycle’s speed settles in next to her. She knows Beck isn’t as interested in music as she is, but she isn’t used to him holding her back like this. _Or being so obvious about it, at least._

            “Could be,” Jet says through the comm, head nodding as he continues to think. “Or it could be the MCP, trying to scare us off of something.”

            She nods back, liking that idea better. She files away the trap concern just in case, though – Beck, even as the Renegade, has rarely lead her wrong. Not on purpose.}

 

            They continue on in silence, the echo occasionally dropping a new line and getting stronger as the song culminates. Mercury fades behind him again, watching their six and leaving Beck to his thoughts. “ _Now that the world has an ending, it’s love that I’m sending to you_ ,” it tells them as the tunnel raises them back to the surface. “ _It isn’t the love of a hero, and that’s why I fear it won’t do . ._ .”

            Beck suppresses a shiver. The line shouldn’t feel threatening, but it is. _How is the world ending? Why would the love of a hero be different, or better?_

            The buildings they pass are dark and silent, barely-visible lines of energy keeping them marked in flickering bursts. It’s no different from the part of Theta they went down in . . . except for the higher level of malevolence. Beck grits his teeth and sends a cautioning ping to Paige, but her glance back snags on something else, causing a sharp turn that twists them back to a junction they’d just passed.

            “ _They’re watching us_ ,” the song tells them as they come to a stop before a surprisingly bright building on the edge of the Outlands. “ _They’re **watching us** , as we all fly awa-ay . . . Oohhh_”

            _How are **we** suddenly the fliers in this scenario?_ Beck wonders, wishing they could do just that.

            “It’s a holding facility,” Jet murmurs, like none of them knows what one looks like. “It’s sucking up all the Sector’s power.”

            _We shouldn’t be here_ _–_

            But Paige has already gotten off her ‘cycle and opened the door. “Shall we find out why?”

            Beck swallows back his protest as she steps inside. _I love her drive and tenacity_ , he reminds himself, following her in. Then a shiver of _wrong_ passes through him when no guards jump forward to ask them questions or scan them . . . and there’s no equipment to do it either, automated or otherwise. _We shouldn’t be here_ , he thinks again, the _wrong_ ness settling further –

            Paige goes through to the next section, where the monitoring station sits empty, it’s few working screens focused on a surprisingly large cell and the lone, hunched-over figure within. Mercury slips into the nearest seat, looking for information while they hover around her.

            The Program is a member of the System, with white armor and blue circuitry. He – Beck’s pretty sure it’s a ‘he’ – is sitting on the floor, angled in such a way that both his face and emblem are hidden from the cameras, idly twirling his Disk like a top on the floor in front of him.

            _Enemy_ , he inner radar warns. _Get out._

            Mercury hits the intercom button.

            “ _A willow deeply scarred – somebody’s broken heart – and a washed-out dre-eam_ ,” a voice sings like it’s a funeral dirge. Beck’s breath catches and he looks to his brother. They know that voice. “ _They follow the pattern of the wind, you see, ‘cause they’ve got no place to be-e – That’s why I’m starting with me!_ ”

            “Jet – no!”

            “ _I’m starting with the man in the mirror_ ,” the figure sings as Jet heads for the door. “ _I’m asking him to change his ways –_ ”

            Tron – _no, not Dad_ , he corrects himself, _. . . **Senior**_ – cuts off as Jet steps through, Beck hot on his heels.

            And blinks at them. “You’re not of this System.” He tilts his head as Beck grabs his brother’s wrist in warning. (Beck hears Paige and Mercury fall to a lingering stop at the door, but doesn’t dare look away.) “None of you are familiar to me.” A slight lurch, and Senior rises to his feet, Disk dangling idly in his hand. “Are you the ones who caused the ruckus earlier?”

            Silence. They watch him a moment. “You’re awfully calm, for a Security Program talking to invaders,” Beck pokes, testing the waters.

            Senior huffs a laugh, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Encom System’s a hub for millions of Programs. It’s an extreme rarity to _not_ see a rainbow of Programs from other Systems in a cycle –”

            “Why was the Sector abandoned?” Mercury cuts him off.

            Senior blinks again, brows raising in almost-genuine surprise. “Is it? Between the gridbug swarms and the storms, I convinced everyone here to leave for their own safety over a hundred cycles ago. I haven’t heard anything since.”

            “How generous of you,” Beck says, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. It _sounds_ true, and that only makes him more leery of the monster wearing their Dad’s face. ~~Even their Clu had never felt this . . . _off_.~~

            Jet’s arm jerks in his grip, like his brother wants to scold or correct him. “Why did you hurt Quorra,” he demands instead.

            Senior’s eyes go wide with horror. “Did I? I admit, I didn’t entirely know what I was doing, but Alan1 – my Creator – he was choking, and no one was doing anything –” Beck’s circuitry flares red; someone snarls rejection as his grip spasms on his brother’s wrist at the lie. Senior startles, his focus flicking towards the girls before it dances back to them, settling on Jet. “My directive is to fight for the Users,” he implores, coming closer. “I couldn’t _not_ do _something_ –”

            “We’re leaving,” Paige says, brooking no argument. Beck wants to kiss her, relieved he’s not the only one seeing through the bullshit. He tugs at his brother’s arm, Jet reluctantly following –

            “Wait. Who are you? What’s going on out there? Is Quorra alright?” Senior asks, almost begging as he presses against the barrier holding him in.

            “We’re of the Grid,” Beck says, pushing Jet the last couple feet through the door. Something ugly twists in Senior’s face at his non-answer, and Beck shuts down, the need to protect his family overwhelming his systems. “And you don’t need to know.”

            The door slides shut on Senior’s snarl, and Beck feels sick. He presses his forehead against the cool door and shudders. _That’s how Dad used to look when he talked about Clu –_

            “You see now? Why I was so leery of your dad?” Steev’s voice asks out of nowhere. Beck turns in time to catch Jet making a face. Maya reaches for her mother’s hand –

            Steev blocks the connection. “This area’s too compromised for a safe analysis,” he warns, eyeing them closely. “But I will ask if y’all’re alright.” He waits for each of them to nod before releasing a breath and nodding back. “Then let’s go home.”

            Beck releases a relieved breath. He can’t speak for the others, but he’s more than ready to be rid of the slime pricking at his circuits. He tries to shake off the chill of their encounter, not looking forward to the interrogation Ram’s bound to give them.

            Against his better judgement, he glances back at the building as they leave – and catches Jet’s thoughtful expression, a shiver washing through him.

            _Oh, no._

*  *  *  *  *

_He’s exhilarated and exhausted when they finally give up on test riding and figuring out the lightcycle – and it really **is** a lightcycle, light tail and all, though now you have to activate it. Claire conked out a couple hours into Max and Braeden’s fanboying, not interested in the technical stuff. Ethan pokes her awake for an early taco supper with the guys before they head back to her place on the ‘cycle._

_Much as he wants to open the ‘cycle up and see how fast she’ll go, Ethan keeps their drive within the speed limit. They’re lucky enough not to get pulled over for the lack of helmets. Getting caught driving a prototype without even a motorcycle license is **not** how he wants to start the second half of his Senior term._

_Thankfully, they don’t have to find out if electric lightcycles are safe to drive in rain, the storm overhead only just starting to grumble when they reach the cargo entrance they used to bring the ‘cycle outside._

_Claire’s swaying hard, ready for the crash as her manic side dies away completely. Ethan tries to keep up a jabbering commentary to keep her engaged so she doesn’t collapse somewhere not conducive to sleep. (Much as he hates to think it, this is his favorite Claire – the someone-in-between she lands in when she’s on her meds or edging from one state into another. Both **present** and **pliable** , so to speak – not that he’s ever gonna try to pull anything on her when she’s **this** out of it. Once was enough for him to learn **that** lesson when they were kids.)_

_Keeping her and the ‘cycle propped up in the elevator shows him how well he’s learned to juggle – just barely competent, thank god there’s only two for him to worry about – but Claire’s still conscious when they roll back insi- –_

_The old guy at Claire’s computer is a surprising concern, to put it mildly._

_“Who the hell are you,” Claire demands, words not so slurred anymore as she steps forward in challenge._

_The old guy turns, a slimy smirk growing under the red glow in his eyes. “Oh, good. You brought it back,” he says like they’re returning a misplaced gadget to him –_

_The laser lights up, its beams dancing as they quickly outline a humanoid figure that gets more and more solid with every pass. Ethan abandons the ‘cycle and grabs Claire’s arm, squinting against the light and pulling her back toward the door. Every hair on his body stands on end in warning – **they shouldn’t be here, not for this** – but his feet stall out before he can open the door and get them the hell out again. _

_They’re stuck. And he doesn’t feel like he can breathe. Claire’s practically vibrating in front of him, but he **can’t move** –_

_The old guy turns back around and stands just before the light dies, adjusting his pants and jacket. He rounds Claire’s desk to stand in front of the humanoid, now dressed in a black catsuit and motorcycle helmet –_

_Lights flicker on in the feet of the catsuit, turning a bright red as they rise up the legs and over the belly. Power hums in the air as the light cascades over the figure’s shoulders and into its fingers, which stretch and wiggle slightly like they’re adjusting in their gloves. A V-shape forms just above the sternum, suggesting –_

_( **“Sark.”** Claire stills in his grip. She knows the name – it’s how they met, after all.)_

_“Greetings, Mate,” The old man says, crowding closer to the figure. “Welcome to the User wor- –”_

_“I am not your mate,” the figure snaps, its helmet melting into its collar._

_(Claire’s breath catches. The new guy’s face looks vaguely familiar, but Ethan can’t be bothered to place it. The thirtieth anniversary edition of the original game hasn’t come out yet –)_

_“Alright,” Old Guy says amiably, the pair circling each other with an air of threat. “I’ve developed a fondness for being called Jarvis myself. Do you have a preference?”_

_(Ethan feels himself flinch, the name from the games and the old guy before them somehow not gelling in his mind. **Moves more like Rinzler to me .** . . )_

_The figure considers a moment. “I will be Sark, for now.”_

_Old Guy hums. “A loyal enough puppet, I suppose,” he mocks._

_“More so than yours proved to be.”_

_Old Guy grimaces. “ **If** he somehow managed to survive my purging **and** the Grid’s hatred, Clu’s guilt has undoubtedly pushed him to commit suicide by now – without any prompting from me. He was virtually useless, anyway.”_

_(A tiny, protesting whine escapes Claire’s throat, and Ethan’s grip tightens around her waist. She’s wondered for years what could’ve flipped game-Clu so dramatically between installments. Seems they now have the beginnings of an answer . . . crazy as **that** sounds. **Dear god, what the hell is going on?!**)_

_Sark hums back. “Agree to disagree. Now, what to do with these two.”_

_The pair turn to look at them, and Ethan’s throat strangles on a scream as the old guy’s smirk returns._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Ethan-and-Claire's story rings familiar, then Yes, they're inspired/based off of this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-lYpUCTdPc , and No, I didn't ask the creators if I could borrow their stuff any more than I asked Disney if I could wreck their sequel and various spinoffs. Hopefully, they don't mind too much. :-)
> 
> Oh, and if you're curious, here're the two songs quoted in the chapter: Hero https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujMTutGwqx8 , Man in the Mirror https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UcpcW44ZmCY 
> 
> Please feel free to leave any thoughts, theories, and questions you might have in the comments. I'm going to need all help possible to get this monster finished (hopefully without another five-year break, like how it started way back in Rescue).


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